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.

 My husband and I made plans to visit our family’s kevarim, something we actually look forward to each Elul. Mount Moriah is where my paternal grandparents, great-grandparents, and great aunts and uncles are buried. It’s a beautiful place, as cemeteries go, and since it’s close to Newark Airport, we enjoy watching the planes take off and land alongside the freeway where we drive.

The best part is that the cemetery is located an hour or so from Lakewood, which means that we get to spend Shabbos with our precious children and grandchildren. Some of my granddaughters and I have a wonderful tradition which started back when I was a child. In those early childhood years, my father worked long hours and was hardly ever home during the week. In fact, family legend has it that when I was three years old, I didn’t even know who my father was. As the story goes, one day, while my mother was giving me a bath, she named all the people in our family who loved me. When she was up to the second cousins, I stopped and asked her about “that man.” My mother looked at me and said, “What man?” to which I answered innocently, “You know, the man with the glasses who lives here?” My mother incredulously sputtered, “You mean Daddy?”

Shabbos was over, and I went around the house putting everything away. I folded the tablecloth, put the dining room table pads away, cleaned the Shabbos leichter, and then started the dishwasher. I glanced over at the fridge and couldn’t help but notice the readout lights on the front panel, a glaring reminder that the Shabbos mode was indeed broken. It was fun having a light in my fridge for the short time that the Shabbos mode was working, but what can you do? It was just plain broken. The bells and whistles are officially gone, and it isn’t worth the time or money to bring them back. Broken. Now my fridge will always remain in the dark.  

My thoughts turn to other dark and broken things. Like broken engagements or broken women who would like to remarry. I watch the process of my single women friends who so want to remarry but aren’t finding it to be an easy process. A shadchan calls them with an idea. They go out on a date or talk on Zoom. Oh, how they want it to work out and how they try making different personalities and lifestyles fit together. So often, they are unsuccessful.