A paradox. No. A practical way of life? Yes. My husband, Perry Westbrook, an English professor and writer, was at heart a 19th century farmer. In close touch with nature, the soil, growing things and viewing with disdain all machines — which break — he chose farm living long before we met. His 72 acres of worn-out farm were enough to provide woods, old fields and space for a kitchen garden of fruits and vegetables. At one time he plowed using a horse and had a horse-drawn snowplow and wagon as well. The land and barns accommodated from time to time various animals: chickens, a sheep, geese, several horses, rabbits and always cats and dogs.

When I married, I acquired three teenaged step-children and the farm in the country. Two adopted children ages five and 10 soon followed. And I began what every rural and suburban wife has: a chauffeur’s job. We were 10 miles from the city, the grade and high schools were three and six miles from home, the library, grocery store, gas station and post office also three miles away. We were over five miles from the entertainments children like — movies, roller skating, rock concerts. As a mother who commuted to the city to work, I was on the road an hour a day. Farm living had its compensations, though convenience to the outside world was not one of them. We had plenty of privacy, beautiful meadows and woods. Opossum and pheasants came to the bird feeder; deer grazed nearby.

But when it came to buying a summer cottage, instead of an Adirondack lake cottage in the woods or a seaside highway, we chose an urban location for a change of scene. Though I personally would have preferred a cottage on a spit of land in the sea, instinct told me to move to town. I had visualized myself running to the beach before breakfast to see what the tide brought in, perhaps a hermit crab or whelk shell. I saw a spot which would attract nesting birds, a place to dig clams and marvel at sunsets, to gather beach plums and make jelly in the waning days of summer. But a small, practical voice kept repeating “the city.”

While my husband and I would be happy steeped in nature, the children needed something different and their interests would keep us in the usual role of chauffeurs, driving them to the Island entertainments. It would be easier to let them walk, we could drive to the isolated primitive spots, or hike to them if we chose.

So we chose a cottage on Ocean Park in Oak Bluffs. Neighbors were 10 feet away on each side, a city lot 35 by 130 feet. A door slamming next door sounded like our own. Certainly privacy was gone. But the beach was 500 feet away and a jetty for fishing was nearby. Within 1,000 feet were a merry-go-round for the five-year-old, a pizza parlor for the 10-year-old, a movie theatre for the 13-year-old. There was even a grocery store a three-minute walk away, so that I never had to run out of anything again. The launderette was two blocks away so the strongest children could carry the laundry to and fro. The ice cream parlor, sandy shore and souvenir shops nearby were always willing to take the money of the children and their friends. Even my husband adjusted to urban life, admitting that as a summer colony, Oak Bluffs could not be spoiled since it was “spoiled” by urbanization 100 years ago! We could be crowded in no further. The children loved it as much as we did. If they felt like exploring the Island and sea, they joined us in the car to find tidal marshes, woods of pine and scrub oak, a hike to the lighthouse. Blue and striated mussels awaited. We made rose hip jam, which never seemed to jell, so we used it as syrup. One summer we picked wild blueberries and I made five pies. We never mastered bayberry candles.

It was the best of two worlds, in summer every convenience on our doorstep or in the town just behind the house and entertainments and activities for all and the beauties of nature just down the road. And in our “real life” on the farm, we had the quiet privacy of basically rural living.

Arlen Westbrook lives in Delmar, N.Y., and Oak Bluffs. She sent this essay to the Gazette recently, noting that she wrote it 23 years ago and had found it while going through files. She wrote: “The children referred to have long ago grown and moved on, Perry Westbrook has died, but I still love my Vineyard cottage and spend time there each season. We bought it in 1962, but the Vineyard always draws me back as a very special place even after all these years.”