The old woman, bent nearly double with the weight of her years, looked up at Demetrius with her black eyes. They seemed to shine from her wrinkled face. Her face reminded Demetrius of a peeled apple left for days on a windowsill.
She said, “You must take the olives, Demetrius, each and every one. You must harvest them and press them and make of them an oil as pure and fine as your lover’s heart.”
Demetrius could only look at the woman in surprise. He didn’t doubt for a moment the love in his heart, but the making of a fine olive oil was an art, and he had never even tried. He felt a fear of failure clutch at his throat.
He blurted out, “What if I fail? What if the oil I make isn’t good enough? What then, old mother?”
“Why you must try again with the next year’s crop. You must try until you succeed, Demetrius.”
And try Demetrius did. And try and try and try. He would be the first to say that all of his early years’ efforts were poor ones. But he worked hard. No one was ever more eager to learn all there was to know about the making of a fine olive oil.
8.