Actually, it wasn’t so much the words, Mum, as having to get off the sofa and drag myself to shul that I was expressing resistance to. OK?
Anyway, where we live now, Rosh Hashanah is as infrequently glimpsed as the lesser-spotted woodpecker. Our patch in Dorset makes the sticks look like Oxford Street. I’m not going to lie: this isn’t one of those stories about how my new life in the countryside, among the bees and WASPs, has made me pine for the touch of the Torah. I’m certainly not about to switch my National Trust membership to
take out a seat subscription at the nearest shul.
However, while it’s OK for me to be glib (it really is — I’ve made a career out of it), I can’t help but be aware of the lack of Jewish influences around my children. Luke attends a Church of England primary school, where his sister will go, too. The school is welcoming, sensitive and inclusive, but how can I put this — we get a lot of Jesus at home. I’m a big fan of Jesus. As the neighbours will tell you, I can be heard using his name frequently and loudly. But I’d like my kids to know the other stories, too.
You know what I’m saying. Chanukah’s easy — presents being a universal language among children. Pesach’s a lock too. There’s no danger of losing Passover, not with all those Technicolor plagues and its own tie-in book.
But outside those two, I’m not sure my children appreciate that they’re Jewish.
Lara, the little one, gets a pass. She’s only just figured out that she’s a girl. But still, it’s never too early to start. My goal is a modest one: I want them to be aware of their heritage, and to know who they are. To that end, this year my wife, Natasha, and I have devised our own version of The Lost Words. We’re both novelists, so we figure we know what we’re doing when it comes to this kind of thing. We’re going to ease the kids in, starting with the basics.
“Schlep”. I’d hate for that word to be left behind. I have a feeling that “kvetch” will get a lot of use, too. I plan to resist “tuchus” for as long as possible. We’re already off to a good start. “Smoked salmon bagel” is already in common usage. The one shining light in the countryside darkness is the fishmonger at the local market who presumably has co-opted ancient smuggling routes in order to acquire his salmon from Manchester — the good stuff. But you have to be there early. The last couple of times we’ve been beaten to the punch by a little, old, white-haired lady. She doesn’t look Jewish.
And so we come back to Rosh Hashanah. How do you interest a six-year-old and a three-year-old in this one? I’ve been giving it a good deal of thought. Do I go with the Jewish New Year angle and talk about the differences between the lunar and Gregorian calendars? What about the ritual of tashlich?
My boy understands about right and wrong, so the idea of casting off his sins might play well — and he likes throwing stuff. Or the food? Apples dipped in honey can’t fail with the little one’s inherited West of Scotland sweet tooth.
In the end I decided to go with the festival’s big gun. The shofar. My first thought was to acquire one — there’s nothing like a bit of show and tell to make your point. So, naturally, I went on myshofar.com to check out the range. Yemenite Kudu shofars, polished ram’s horn shofars, professional shofars, shofar accessories — I was dazzled by the choice. And before you check out your basket, don’t forget to add a bottle of Lily of the Valley anointing oil.
Then I remembered that I couldn’t blow the thing. My wife is a lapsed flautist, so although it’s been a while since she picked up her instrument, I thought she might be able to get a sound out of the old ram’s horn. She mumbled something about incompatible embouchure and sloped off to write another chapter of her novel. In the end I went on YouTube to find a professional in action.
“Come and watch this,” I said to my children, hitting play.
“Is it PAW Patrol?” enquired Lara.
“Is it a video of a Bugatti Chiron?” asked Luke.
“No,” I sighed. “It’s a man with a beard blowing a religious symbol of your people.”
When they’d got over that disappointment they settled in front of the screen. As the ancient sound shivered from the speakers, I watched Luke’s distinctive frown of concentration mutate. To my delight, I recognised in his face the light of understanding. Was this a breakthrough on his way to a fuller appreciation of his birthright?
“Dad, Dad — it sounds just like the Portman Hunt!”
I fear we have a way to go.
David Solomons’ latest novel for children, ‘My Arch-Enemy is a Brain in a Jar’ (published by Nosy Crow), and Natasha Solomons’ new novel, ‘House of Gold’ (Penguin), are out now.
