All of us have experiences in life that can be described as “lives well lived.” In truth, there are hundreds of “stories” out there. Think about it – and I do think about it often – every Jew alive today and every observant Jew, especially, is a miracle. We have endured so many centuries of mistreatment that anyone who somehow survived and is now living a Jewish life is a nes, a miracle.

From time to time, Rabbi Dovid Katz asks me to profile an interesting person. Those who have lived in Baltimore for a long time have probably met Esther and Roni Matyas. Esther was a caterer for decades. Roni is a professional traiberer, trained to remove certain veins and to salt the meat after an animal has been shechted. In Hebrew, this is called nikur and melicha. Roni did this for many years and also served as a mashgiach in the slaughterhouse. He is proud to have received a letter from Rabbi Moshe Heinemann permitting him to perform these functions at Ner Israel. But Roni had a life before he came to the goldene medina, and Rabbi Katz was correct that this story deserves to be told.

Not long ago, Feigi sent me to Seven Mile Market with a Shabbos shopping list. Unfortunately, I have had great difficulty with mobility recently and find it necessary to use a cane or a walker. A shopping cart is actually very helpful. Unfortunately, however, my left foot is sometimes especially painful around the knee. I later found out that this happened because I was advised to put a pad in my left shoe because that leg foot was a little shorter than the other. This “cure” upset the muscles and has caused me weeks of pain, which ebbs and flows.

Last Friday, I was in the middle of the store when I realized that every step I took was painful. I could not continue shopping, even using the cart as a walker. But I was trapped. I didn’t feel able to walk out of the store all the way to my car, and I was only partially finished with the shopping list. What to do?

Recently, I was leafing through Mishpacha magazine. Among the articles was one entitled “Guardians of the City.” It summarized the lives of rabbis who arrived in America when it was still a spiritual wasteland. The article suggests that, during our vacation time, we take a road trip to visit the kevarim of almost forgotten Torah leaders in quaint locations around North America.

The first “hidden giant” was Rav Michoel Eliezer Forshlager,1884-1958, who is buried right here in Baltimore’s B’nai Israel Cemetery. I have seen how, over the years, his grave has been turned into a shrine, with place for candles to be lit by those who go there to pray. Rav Forshlager is buried in the same row as my wife Feigi’s father, Chester Siegel, in a section of this large cemetery reserved for shomrei Shabbos.

Although we are now far into sefer Bereishis, I am writing this in the week of parshas Noach, which brings back a memory that I want to share.

We are living in interesting times. As I walked to shul over Yom Tov, I rejoiced seeing so many observant young families passing by. The sight of a mother and father pushing a baby carriage, accompanied by a number of small children was the norm. Recently, I have been davening at Shomrei Mishmeres Hakodesh, whose Rav and Rebbetzin, Chaim and Devorah Schwartz, are welcoming and where the davening is inspiring and the weekly kiddush cholent delicious. The new shul is almost complete and the mikvah for Shabbos and Yom Tov use in the Cheswolde neighborhood is soon to open. Although I belong to three other shuls, Rabbi Schwartz is only a block-and-a-half from my home. It is not as easy for me to walk to Shomrei, although not so many years ago, I could walk six miles to Randallstown every Shabbos.

As the years pass, I am thrilled to see the fantastic growth of the Baltimore community. We see a plethora of new shuls opening and existing shuls building enlarged edifices. We see new schools opening to accommodate the exponential growth of our school-age population and the proliferation of new restaurants. I remember when going out to eat meant going to Liebes Delicatessen.

Several months ago, our daughter Shani called and suggested we visit my sister Elsie Blum. Shani had learned that my 93-year-old only surviving sibling had gone through a difficult medical situation and was now recovered. Elsie lives in a retirement community in Fort Worth, Texas. Shani made all the arrangements and insisted on covering all the costs. She drove up from her home in Richmond, Virginia, and we flew out of BWI on a Sunday and returned Monday. It was a wonderful opportunity to visit our Fort Worth family and to spend quality time with my sister. Shani got especially close to her family as she attended LSU in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, for a semester and visited the Blums. Elsie has always been close to us and came to all our family simchas.

Sadly, as time goes by and I think back to the people who played a role in my life, I don’t know if I really appreciated all of them. This article is a way to show hakaras hatov to someone who was significant in my early years.

In the 1960s, ehen I came up north from Montgomery, Alabama, for yeshiva, I learned, for the first time, that a large share of my fellow students were children of Holocaust survivors. Indeed, the renaissance of Orthodox Jewry is, to a very great extent, due to the impact of those survivors.

In the town where I grew up, there were hardly any Holocaust survivors. I recall Eric Knurr, who came from Germany. He was actually a relative of the Kranzlers of Baltimore. Mrs. Kranzler, a”h, told me he was a physician in Germany and came from a distinguished family. But aside from knowing his two children, Werner and Evelyn, I do not recall him being active in the shul, due to his owning a small grocery store. There may have been one or two other people who came because of the war, but I do not recall them.