The sound of the beater from my Mother’s loom was a reassuring clunk. She passed the shuttle through the various threads stretched up across the machine, then pressed her foot down, and the beater clunked again. I was next to her on the small seat, her legs dangling down. She was showing me how it worked, and then she mentioned how this was a skill that would help feed my family, but I’d have to be careful not to make my husband feel that he wasn’t doing a good job of providing.
The clunking sounded somewhat less reassuring after that.