Once I was a weaver

A long time ago, well over 20 years, I was a weaver. I learned to weave in high school, and received a loom as a high school graduation present. I used it until we had a house fire, and then I went on to other hobbies, but I used to love the rhythm of throwing the shuttle and beating the fabric. Dressing the loom? Not so much.

When my grandfather turned 90, my family threw a large party for him. I wanted to give him a special gift, and so I made him a hand woven tallit. I was very proud of that tallit, it was probably some of the most beautiful weaving I ever did. He used it regularly until he died at 95. When my parents called and asked if I would object if he was buried in it, I didn't think about it, I said yes.

Over the years I have occasionally regretted that decision. When each son had his bar mitzvah and more recently when my first grandson was born I thought how wonderful it might have been if they could use Joe Joe's tallit. I think that desire was partially influenced by the fact that I really didn't have an image of my grandfather with the tallit, and then, tonight, there it was, a picture of Joe, holding the tallit I made. It doesn't bring him back, and it doesn't bring back the tallit, but it helps.

I loved my grandfather. I have wonderful, if somewhat fuzzy memories, and now I have one more, clear and sharp. Joe Joe standing in his living room, holding the tallit I wove with my own hands. Thank you Barbara.