Like many Spanish bachelors, he had lived at home with his mother all his life, but even after she died he could not bring himself to stay with Catherine, of whom his mother had disapproved because of her divorce and her foreignness. But Catherine has her home in the village, her walls and tables draped in richly woven textiles, colorful clay pots and plates in the cupboards. She has her friendship with Manuel and other villagers who have come to love her. And she has her olives. This is Catherine's first time collecting the olives of her trees.
Harvesting comes once a year, late fall, and lasts a little over a month.
Today at twilight she will take the sacks we have filled to the molina in town that you can hear grinding away when the winds blow a certain direction, even from up here in the hills, making oil from the villagers' olives. The sun gets hot and bright in southern Spain, even now in late fall. But the breezes from the Mediterranean are refreshing, and dry the sweat beading on my forehead before it can trickle down my face. I use our hands, better for feeling the round bubbles of meat, smooth and taut, as we gently clasp the branches and pull through silvery-green leaves. This is a much-needed respite from days at my writing desk in the small house I'm renting in the village.