I guess I’ve been island hopping all my life. Born on the urban island of Manhattan, I grew up on Long Island, then went to the “mainland” in Boston and in the 1970s Joan and I bought a bit of land on this Island of Martha’s Vineyard. We then moved to the island continent of Australia and raised two kids there before moving to London and the British Isle. Then back to Manhattan and now full-time on Martha’s Vineyard. The commute to mainland America from the Vineyard is far more manageable than that from Sydney.

Our little house on the Vineyard has been the “secure ground tackle” in our family’s life. The kids grew up as Aussies with Yank accents, coming back during Australian winter vacation in July. They kept in touch with the things they loved about the States (reconnecting with family, fishing for bluefish, sailing in the ponds) and they kept familiar with the things they found troubling about the States (a seeming ignorance of many things “overseas,” a complete disinterest in the World Cup, and puzzling foreign policies.) Despite their world view, the kids grew up with the Vineyard as their American home.

And now in my second year of full-time residency, I find that this particular Island home suits me just fine. The excitement and buzz of urban living in Boston, Sydney, London and New York city was accompanied by an anonymity and a who-cares attitude about other people on the streets. The excitement and buzz of the Vineyard is certainly less in your face, but it is there nonetheless and anonymity is replaced with the knowledge that the person on the street probably knows you — so don’t give the finger to the driver who cuts you off at the blinker light intersection, it might be your doctor.

In autumn, the booming of the surf sounding through the trees is no longer muffled by foliage. The ocean and ponds are still warm, the northerly winds keep things crisp as they blow the falling leaves all over the place. In winter, I find neither artistic country solitude nor Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

I find, instead, Jeremy playing jazz at Offshore Ale in Oak Bluffs. I discover structures and ponds and stone walls suddenly appearing through the bare trees. I find our friend’s daughter, Celia, scoring hat tricks for the girl’s hockey team at the Martha’s Vineyard Arena, and I find quietly content people doing morning yoga at the Yoga Barn and at the Y. I find the constant quiet of the winter roads at night to be soothing; the occasional car traveling past at 40 miles per hour sounds like a Formula 1 racer throttling up South Road. I find the old adage “don’t fool around with Mother Nature” a consistent theme as I read the epic poem of the beaches, the sea grass and the dunes struggling against the armies of winter storms.

And suddenly March disappears, after lasting at least 90 days, and daffodils appear, followed by lilacs, shortly by rhododendrons and then peonies. Finally, once again, the roads are filled with dead skunks, tour buses and mopeds.

Then there’s the dawn of the first hot, gorgeous day when the now-tranquil northerly wind pushes the fog off to the south and dumps pollen into airways and onto cars — the grass is green along the side of the roads, the heat warms your face and your newly bare arms — where did I put the sunscreen?

On this Island, I have the wonderful ability in winter or summer to walk on a beach, to paddle on a pond, to hike on a trail and to be blissfully unaware of the traffic at Five Corners, of distressing news stories or of tomorrow’s crummy weather forecast.

I love the freedom to be who and what I want, within the reasonable constraints of a New England town. Joan and I are very happy here. Our kids and their partners are here as often as possible. In Aussie speak, it suits us right down to the ground.

Jim Malkin, a semi-retired media executive, lives with his wife, Joan, a retired attorney, and their rescue dog Sandy, in Chilmark.