In our frum world, people are often judged by what is on their heads. But my dad taught me that what’s really important is not what’s on your head but what’s in your head. That wise saying has guided my hashkafa (religious outlook) in life.

I grew up in Shearith Israel, where a boy got his rite of passage upon his bar mitzva: a black hat. You could not get an aliya unless you wore a hat. A tallis over one’s head was frowned upon by this Yekkishe congregation. So my parents took me downtown to Joyce Hat Company, where I purchased my first black hat; it had a short brim and a red feather on the side, and I wore it primarily on Shabbos.

With cell phone in pocket or purse, we are all photographers these days. It’s so easy. Film has gone the way of the typewriter, and everything is digital. No need to load the camera; no need to turn the film to the next frame. The pace of life is fast, and it can be captured at an equally fast pace in pictures that preserve our most precious memories.

There are cameras on our doors, too, and on our PCs and laptops, in the streets, and in all kinds of buildings. The cameras keep clicking, covertly capturing our activities, and we do not always get to smile.

During these hot summer days, I visited three cemeteries in just a week’s time. First, my wife and I went to the cemetery in Woodbridge New Jersey, where her parents are buried, as we commemorated her mother’s yahrzeit. My mother-in-law was a Trenk, and the Trenk family plot is a very chashuv (prestigious) place. The Trenk patriarchs, Morris and Shea, brothers who ran the Morris Trenk Hosiery and Underwear store on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side, are buried there. There also lie my in-laws (Morris’s daughter and husband), very special people; their cousins, the Schechters of Pioneer Country Club and the Granit Pesach hotel fame; and Reb Dovid Trenk, possibly one of the greatest mechanchim (educators) of this century; as well as his brother and other wonderful cousins.

Hi, let me introduce myself: I am Eli W. Schlossberg and I’m kind of new in town. How can I say that, you ask, when I was born at Sinai Hospital in 1950? Well, I’m talking about the “new” town of Baltimore. Let me describe the Baltimore I knew, and then you will understand.

Sinai Hospital? No, not the one off Northern Parkway; in those days it was located on Ann and Monument Streets. My family davened at a Shearith Israel – no, not the one on Glen Avenue. It was located on McCulloh Street off North Avenue. We shopped at Wasserman and Lemberger – no, not the one on Reisterstown Road; it was on Whitlock Street and then on Park Heights, and it was indeed owned by Mr. Bernie Wasserman and Mr. Sol Lemberger.

Many of you reading this article know me. After all, I grew up in Baltimore and spent my whole life here. Some of you know me as a businessman, with a 40-year career in specialty foods. Others know me from my articles in the Where What When or as a trustee of Baltimore’s wonderful Ahavas Yisrael Charity Fund. What many of you may not know is my profound attachment to music and especially to my guitar. Let me tell you the story.

This is the final installment of “Letters to My Children and Grandchildren.” If you have been following the series, you know that these letters are part of a book of advice for life, based on Pirkei Avos, that I wrote for my children. I have received good feedback from readers and hope that you have been inspired to write your own letters as a legacy to the next generation. If so, then my goal in sharing will have been accomplished.

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Dear Children,

Celebrate simchas and siyumim to their fullest. Each time you celebrate, give proper hakaras hatov (gratitude) to Hashem. Give tzedaka to the less fortunate so they can have simcha as well.

Happiness