The shutters on my house are made of larch, a deciduous conifer. Larch is a wood valued for its tough, durable, and waterproof qualities. It was about thirty percent more expensive than pine when my house was being refurbished, but I went for it in the hope of having less trouble with maintenance over the years. Well, the shutters were installed almost a decade ago, and they need a little tender care right now. Jozo Brandić is taking them down one by one, sanding them, and covering them with a protective finish. But there are many shutters on my house. He will take care of about a quarter of them before I go to Zagreb next week. The rest will have to wait until spring. In the meanwhile, the house is open to him. He comes and goes, and I am forever figuring out when he will be back, for I hate to leave the house open if I am not at home. I cannot imagine anyone in Motovun taking anything out of it, but these are habits deeply entrenched in the States in my youth. At any rate, my daily rhythm is disrupted. And so is my writing, which is close to the core of my being. Every now and then I find myself cursing the shutters. As well as larch. Why in the world is it not tougher, more durable, and waterproof to boot?!