Shofart

Did your family play Shofart?

Our writings have found a rhythm of their own—week after week and season after season.

Faithfully, every Friday, we honor the Sabbath.

An unintentional blog that traces the origin stories of the Yaffe family from the eyes of the last remaining member of the family.

Now, on Issue #393, our occasionally witty writings reprise chapters of Harlan’s legacy.

Thank you for joining us as the Hebrew lunisolar calendar carries us into the year 5787.

We hope that during these Days of Awe, you found time to look inward, rekindle memories of the ancestors who came before you, and bring them close again during Yizkor and Ne’ilah.

If you have never sat in a sanctuary after a full day of fasting and prayer, the conclusion of Yom Kippur is marked by the sound of the shofar.

Specifically, that final, long and truthful cry—the tekiah gedolah.

For our non-Jewish readers, we have compared the shofar to a conch shell used by an ancient community: a sound sent across the distance to gather people, warn them, awaken them, or call them to attention.

Long before telephones, radio and social media—and even before Hadassah, the women’s organization founded in 1912—the sound of the shofar was already woven into Jewish life.

The shofar carries no words, yet its voice says plenty.

Tekiah is one strong, steady, unbroken call—a summons to stop and listen.

Shevarim is three broken, sighing notes. It gives sound to sorrow, regret, and the parts of us that long to be repaired.

Teruah is a rapid series of short, trembling cries—an alarm intended to shake the soul awake.

Then comes the tekiah gedolah—the great, extended final blast, held for as long as one breath will carry it.

After the broken cries, it sounds like endurance, hope, and a return to wholeness.

That is the sacred explanation.

And then there is the Yaffe family explanation.

Shofart

Our parents knew the importance of raising Harlan and me within Jewish life. They taught us the holidays, prayers, traditions, and sounds that connected our family to the generations before us.

Dad also taught us that the different shofar calls could be assigned to farts.

A short series might be teruah.

Three broken bursts could qualify as shevarim.

One long, proud blast was clearly tekiah.

And if it continued far longer than anyone expected, we had ourselves a true tekiah gedolah.

I guess the story goes—as it was told to me many times—that Dad, Harlan, and his new baby brother were taking a walk around the Big Block.

During the walk, little Hally let out some flatulence.

For the first time, Harlan proudly yelled:

“TEKIAH!”

Like father, like son.

Harlan had been listening. He understood the family game and knew exactly what to call the sound.

Dad was impressed by the impression his fatherhood—and his humor—had already made on his firstborn son.

Dad was so proud to tell Mom what happened, and they continued to tell me until the end.

That small moment became part of our family language.

Some families pass down silver candlesticks. Some pass down recipes, Hebrew names, or a treasured kiddush cup.

Our family also passed down the ability to identify a ceremonial blast when we heard one.

As we grew older, Harlan continued calling out the proper notes for my frequent “shofarts.” Evidently, I provided plenty of material for him to practice with.

What makes this memory even funnier is the Harlan many of you knew as an adult.

Adult Harlan was very private about bodily functions. He did not want to discuss natural noises, acknowledge them, or, if possible, even hear them.

That was quite a contrast from the Harlan of my youth—the boy who could confidently identify my latest blast as tekiah, shevarim, teruah or, on an especially impressive day of dairy, tekiah gedolah.

Were we the only family who played these silly “shofart” games?

Or did your family also find ways to mix religious education, family humor, and the natural noises nobody wanted to claim?

Nearly fifty years after Dad’s passing, his humor still strikes a note.

When my Ashkenazi tush produces one long, clear, and unexpectedly sustained blast, I can still hear the proper family response:

“TEKIAH GEDOLAH!”

The calendar keeps moving. One holy day gives way to the next.

As this Shabbat begins, Sukkot arrives with it—our harvest festival and our time to step into the sukkah beneath the open sky.

Our next writing should bring a breath of fresh air.

As we enter 5787, we wish you and your family a harmonious, happy, and healthy New Year.

May your apples be fully charged and extra sweet.

May your honey be organic and ever-flowing.

May the broken notes within your heart find their way back to wholeness.

And may the long, clear notes of Harlan’s refrain continue to reach us across the years:

Peace, Love & Equality For All!

Sending warmest wishes from our hearts to yours.

Shabbat Shalom.

Hal and Peggy Jo