You know him as Hembree Brandon. I’ve always called him Aitch, although not to his face.

Now he’s retiring and the Mid-South — heck, the world — will be poorer for it. He has been a great boss and is a fantastic writer, period. Aitch could have picked any venue for his words — non-fiction, long-form journalism, scripts — and done the business. He picked agriculture and how lucky we have been to have him for decades.

He’s the best writer ag has ever had. Find me another and we’ll compare, but it’ll be a hard slog to convince me otherwise. Countless stories and columns are on my side. Someday, hopefully now if not sooner, this will be recognized. Not a joke.

He produces precise, clean strings of words that move at a sweet cadence. And it makes sense when you consider the kind of music he digs — lots of classical that I know little about. A few weeks back, he sent me a video link of some woman beautifully bending a piano to her will.

Here’s something you’re unlikely to know: he may like Elvis but he loathes the Beach Boys. Pushing back just a bit (the Beach Boy’s surfing stuff is, in fact, lame), I asked, “but what about Pet Sounds?” He wasn’t swayed.

Another: he loves to laugh, belly-laugh. He has a proper sense of humor that takes in many types. Obscure, screwball, British, it doesn’t matter. He’s down with all sorts of television shows, films, stand-up. And if the joke is on him, no problem — Aitch is self-deprecating that way.

He is also a master at lauding folks who have passed. So, if you’re looking for a good send-off, pray Aitch is your buddy and you hit St. Peter up before he does. Think I’m wrong? Read his gentle and profound columns regarding lost family, friends and colleagues. Again, no joke.

I’ll leave you with an anecdote Aitch will like and might help explain why I’d run through a wall for the gent. About 25 years ago, I walked into the Farm Press HQ after spending about a year at the local newspaper in Clarksdale, Miss. My hair was a bit long, my ambition whetted, my wife pregnant and due in about eight months.

Making just over $12,000 a year, I needed a break. I sat there with Aitch and Forrest Laws — another much-missed, recently-retired colleague — and said, “I’ll cut my hair like yours! I’ll dress like you!” We all laughed. I needed the job.

For some reason, Aitch took a shine to me. “No, no. You don’t have to cut your hair or any of that,” he said. “Just go bone up on agriculture and start writing. Do that and you’ll be fine.”

Happy retirement, Aitch. I love you, man.

Please forgive me for never having said it before.