My father's stepfather operated a "blood mill" in the old village of Oraison. When he returned from the war, my father learned the trade of miller from him. He got married and, in 1923, installed a very modern mill for the time in the location where it still stands today... just imagine: "everything runs on ELECTRICITY."
My earliest memories are of hide-and-seek games among the sacks of olives... it's the good piece of warm focaccia drizzled with new oil and devoured at four o'clock, after school... it's my great devil of a godfather, enthroned, majestic, in the midst of the wooden vats where the oil decants.
What wonderful winters, the winters of my childhood! A huge fire kept the water hot in a black vat; there was steam, smoke, heat; shouts... laughter! The sound of the crusher and, above all, the deliciously captivating scent given off by the olive paste crushed by the heavy millstones.
It's been forty-two years now that we've been living to the rhythm of the olive growing seasons, forming a solid team, sharing responsibilities... So much sorrow, so much joy around this mill... But what pride to have been able to continue, together, the work of my parents.
Lucie Henry — Moulin Paschetta-Henry, Oraison — December 26, 1989