It was the right thing to do.

This past April we sold our primary residence outside of Boston and moved the proverbial lock, stock and what seemed like 47 barrels to Vineyard Haven. At the same time, we told friends that we also intended to sell the house we’ve had in Menemsha for 24 years. We decided it was time to live permanently on this Island. But the only way we could seriously entertain that notion was to live within walking distance of a town that breathed life more than four months of the year.

My wife, Paula, and I had been thinking of actually living on the Vineyard for several years but had not found our dream house. It wasn’t about retirement. When friends ask me, “Are you retiring?” I always find myself saying, “From what?” I am a writer. In all my years of writing, for fun or profit, I have never met a retired writer. No, it was about lifestyle. We love this Island and just felt living on this beautiful place would get us one step closer to heaven. A good place to be when you come to terms with the realization that you are now autumn chickens.

Counted among our friends were more and more year-rounders. They were personable, warm, enthusiastic. They threw art events, beach events, dinner parties. They could all cook. They made living here look like fun. Even in the winter. Soon they acted as glamorous sirens, beckoning us, luring us to join them, promising us we would not be shipwrecked on the shoals of misgiving. We swooned. It was as if a heavy burden had been lifted. We decided to become, like them, blissful washashores.

But where was that dream house? As it turned out, it was exactly where we wanted it to be. Tucked away on Woodlawn avenue, a nest with a white picket gate, a red door and a picture window that let in — and let out — the warmest of glows. An easy walk into “downtown” Vineyard Haven — to the shops, the cafes, the banks, the post office, the books, the movies, the plays, the lectures, the ice cream — and the ferry. To get to our house we could also walk down William street, a gracious lane of stately homes.

We made up our minds. A little out of our price range, perhaps, but dreams don’t wait for reality to make you follow your heart. We swallowed hard, then bit the bullet, our nails and a few other things. We bought the perfect house in the perfect location. Worries were soothed by the effect of the neighborhood. There’s a calmness in the trees.

A month after we moved in, a couple of friends came to us with an inviting idea. They said it was time to meet our neighbors, time to be inducted into a sense of permanence in Vineyard Haven. They sent out potluck notices for Memorial Day. And so we threw open our doors and about 60 people bearing good food and good cheer came bounding in. We are now hooked.

I have loved my summer, a time for creating rituals. There’s the morning walk with my yellow Lab, Floyd, down Owen Park to the beach for a swim (him, not me) and then off to pick up the mail at the post office and get a cup of coffee for the return trip up Main or William. On Fridays we’ve had friends drop by because we live across the street from Our Lady of the Lobster Roll, Grace Episcopal Church. A new life is beginning.

Three weeks before we moved here, my best friend, playwright-director Jon Lipsky, died of cancer at his home in West Tisbury. When we were first smitten by the house on Woodlawn, we were feverish with doubt, something Jon no longer saw as a virtue. He had seen photos of our new house online and planned on paying it a visit so he could pass judgment on our “dream.” Jon gave daily thought to the act of dreaming. He even published a book on the subject. Although he grew weaker and could not make the trip from West Tisbury to Tisbury, he sweetly offered his advice.

“Buy the house,” he said on the phone.

“You just want another like-minded soul to move to the Vineyard,” I countered.

“You love the house. I can hear it in your voice.” Thus spake the oracle.

“It’s a couple hundred thousand more than we intended,” I said, imitating some paternal voice of reason.

“Hock the family jewels. Do whatever it takes to get that house.”

“But . . .”

“You want me to say time is short? I’ll do that. I’ll also say what’s money if you can’t use it to buy a dream?”

Here we are, Jon. Here we are. And I miss you very much. But . . .

It was the right thing to do.

Arnie Reisman and his wife, Paula Lyons, regularly appear on the weekly NPR comedy quiz show, Says You!, heard locally on WCAI and WGBH.