Michele Herman

For fifteen years we had a dog, which meant that for fifteen years my days were meted out in companionable, purpose-driven walks. Then, in early 2020, the dog—bless his wiry coat and big dachshund heart—began an excruciating decline. He grew so thin he became almost luminous. We had to put him down that August. I […]

Walking down Greenwich Street recently, I came upon a sight that chilled my West Villager’s heart: a giant For Rent sign in the main window of Garber’s hardware at 710 Greenwich and Charles Streets. It’s a store I have relied on ever since I moved to the neighborhood in the 80s, with particularly heavy patronage

The first book I ever bought that was written by someone I knew was a French memoir called Frany, one of those nifty European paperbacks whose cover folds inward to serve as a bookmark. The author was my theater professor when I was lucky enough to do a junior semester in Paris, a gentle, roly-poly

My husband and I went to Boston for the weekend for a friend’s surprise birthday party. I used to go to Boston for the weekend all the time when I was in my teens and 20s. What a strong pull it exerted then: all those smart students swarming the umpteen colleges, including my sister at

Not all that long ago, an editor at a website that covers green architecture and sustainable design called me about doing some writing for them. We had a pleasant conversation, and then, before saying goodbye, I asked for her phone number. Awkward pause. Just use this number, she said. Awkward pause. I’m on a landline

Let’s talk shampoo, a conversation that I think is long overdue. For years I bought mine from Arrojo, a local salon, in jumbo plastic containers. The products had none of the bad stuff—parabens, phthalates, synthetic fragrances—and I figured one big container uses less plastic than several smaller ones. Then the algorithm started to feed me

In 1984 I took an oddball part-time summer job with a company that created newspaper indexes. My first task every morning was to call an obscure office at The New York Times. How many dots? I would ask. The voice on the other end would give me a number ranging from zero to four, and

Spring 2025. I head over to the median strip of West Street at Christopher to participate in a small weekly “action” I’ve just learned about. I choose a hand-lettered sign from the organizer’s bag that reads HONK IF YOU LOVE DEMOCRACY. For the first time since elementary school, someone hands me a tambourine. Goldilocks-like, I’ve