I remember back when cassette tapes were something everybody knew about. Our glove compartment was full of all the latest tunes, and my children sang Uncle Moishy songs so much that I can still sing them to this very day.

It was in those long-ago days that I discovered Rav Avigdor Miller, zt”l. What a treasure trove of wisdom there was to be found in what he taught. I borrowed his tapes from the little kollel in Pittsburgh, in the neighborhood called Squirrel Hill, and if I think about it, I can still hear his voice in my head. It was through Rav Avigdor that I first learned about how to appreciate an apple, among other things. His style was easy to understand, and he helped me to see Hashem in my everyday life.

Over the years, I learned to feel gratitude for what I’ve been given. A bright sunny day, another healthy year, kein ayin hora, or the joys of being a grandmother helped tune me in to Who gave me these gifts. I have Rav Avigdor to thank for setting me on this path.

The awareness that Rav Avigdor taught me paired nicely with my early awareness of nature. I learned in my younger years to stop and take notice of the subtleties of springtime. I enjoyed seeing the bare branches of the trees start to bud in the early spring and made sure to watch each new day as those buds turned into blossoms and then into tiny green leaves. Seeing was believing, and I didn’t need any convincing as to Who had planned it all.

I learned to see the world as a symphony with its Master Conductor. I understood and appreciated Who caused the rains to fall, the winds to blow, and the sun to shine. Joys as well as sorrows were tailor-made and planned to perfection.

I remember each year anew why I love the spring. Maybe it’s the flowering blossoms on the trees, or perhaps it’s the green shoots coming out of the ground. Here in Baltimore, this season takes its time to unfurl. It’s a wonderful feast for the eyes as the Master Conductor wakes up His creations, each in turn, from the long and cold winter slumber.

Spring has always been my favorite season, and flowers were something I enjoyed planting in the homes where I’ve lived. Since moving to a condominium, I’ve brought spring into my home with the tulips and daffodils, which grace my Shabbos table. The cold and icy winter we had this year has helped me to appreciate this season more than ever, and I’m grateful now for each blade of grass as far as the eye can see.

Gratitude has found its way into my worldview in other ways as well. This past Taanis Esther was a day like none I had ever experienced before, since it coincided with the events in Eretz Yisrael. My davening had more meaning, and for the first time, I felt as though I got a tiny glimpse of what Yidden in the days of Mordechai must have experienced. Gratitude indeed.

I learned recently that the new Baltimore group, Let’s Connect, will be starting a welcome wagon for any women over age 50 who move to Baltimore. What a fabulous idea that is. As you are probably aware, women who are at or near retirement age are moving to cities where their children reside. They come from Silver Spring and Denver, Boston and Atlanta – you name it. I know plenty of women from Cleveland who have moved to Lakewood, pulling up stakes and leaving the place they called home for 30 years or more. They want to be near their children and grandchildren while they are still young enough to enjoy them.

It certainly is a great idea and one my husband and I have considered, but there’s just something about Baltimore that makes the decision to move to Lakewood a hard one. As my parents have often said since moving here from the small town where they lived for 59 years, “People here are just so nice!” Everyone has a kind word to say, from the servers at the restaurants to the cashiers at the grocery stores, even the lady at the post office. Could it be Southern hospitality, I wonder, since Baltimore is at the top of the Southern states? Maybe it’s because so many generations stayed in Baltimore and have never left. No matter where my husband (who was born and bred right here) and I go, we manage to meet many people who graduated from Pikesville High.

And look at our wonderful community that’s filled with achdus as far as the eye can see. How heartwarming it is to attend events with rabbanim of every stripe. It’s a credit to them and to the people from each shul and, of course, to Ner Yisroel, which instills the importance of middos tovos. It’s incredible how often men who are at least 30 years younger than my husband stop and take the time to say hello or good Shabbos and who offer him rides to shul, come rain or shine.

It was in one of my psychology classes back in college that I first learned about that dog – the one who was trained to salivate upon hearing a bell. It was amazing to hear how a dog, which naturally hungers for a piece of juicy meat, could replicate that exact craving after simply hearing a bell ring. This was a well-known story and one that became a common cliché. But to think it could actually apply to me was preposterous – or so I thought. Who knew that some 40 years later, I would turn into exactly that, minus the fur and the wagging tail, of course.

It’s been about nine years since I’ve owned a smartphone. Back then, it was an enticing gadget, and I reasoned that my children were grown and gone so I didn’t need to be concerned about their chinuch. I dove into this new world headfirst and soon became part of the crowd.

We had a variety of lovely guests on a Shabbos afternoon, and as I was preparing the next course, the ladies congregated in the kitchen, and we started talking about cooking. We reminisced about feeding our families “once upon a time.” One of the women admitted that she no longer enjoys cooking. My eyes grew wide as she went on to confide that she felt downright fear. I couldn’t believe my ears because all along I thought I was the only one.

My memory of those bygone days is rather sketchy, but I know for a fact that I kept my family well-fed. Like my contemporaries of that time, we cooked and cooked and cooked some more. In those out-of-town years, our friends were our family, and so we had guests aplenty to cook for, along with the home crew. I can’t say I was ever a chef; cooking was something I just did. And as my grandmother, a”h, used to say, “And how!”

It’s that time of the year again when donuts will soon be everywhere. Those luscious and creamy confections will be in abundance as far as the eye can see. Large boxes, whose mysterious contents are hidden from view, will appear in the schools where I work. Grocery stores will display them with tongs at the ready to plunk into waiting boxes. My mouth waters just thinking about biting into a soft, fresh donut – something that is forbidden to me.

I haven’t had a donut since last Chanukah, and I’m proud of my year-long hiatus. Intellectually, I know that eating a donut can make me sick. Psychologically, I know that eating one donut is like eating one potato chip, and I’ve only met one person in my entire life who can pull off such a feat. I’m better off not indulging in any soft and creamy cravings, but it will be hard when I go grocery shopping and see wall-to-wall donuts. It won’t take much to convince me that eating them would be a festive thing to do.