I grew up in Carthage, right on the coast in Tunisia. The olive trees there were already old when I was small. They were old when my parents were small, too.
The oil from those trees was never a product. It was just part of life. On bread. On tomatoes. On sunburned skin. On the ends of my hair, until my grandmother eventually gave up because my hair had developed a personality of its own.
There was the grove, and there was us. It was only a short walk between the two.