“We’d like to send him to the ER to rule out a stroke. Someone needs to accompany him.”
Our litvish husbands had never heard of the song that never ends.
As children, we’d join in. As teenagers, we’d find it a little tiring and frequently space out. And as adults, well… But every so often, we’d visit on a Motzaei Shabbos and join my father as he sang the interminable song. Every week without fail, my father would sing it with pathos, with joy, with yearning — with true Yiddishe taam.
There was a straightforward logic to the tune. It played in a loop, with ten mentions of the prophet in each. If you counted 13 stanzas, that’s it; you were done. And all the blessings Eliyahu HaNavi could bring would descend upon your house for the week, I suppose. (I never thought to ask what the segulah was for).
Still, we don’t sing it these days.
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