Two screen patches cling to the rear screen door, still threaded on all four sides. But the kitchen door is an unholy mess. Five, six, seven loose patches flap loosely with every slam. Poked by kids, abused by adult feet, the door is a patchwork of patches, providing unobstructed entry for intrepid insects that swarm on a warm summer night.

In the past, I might have taken the time to repair it. But not anymore. I’m learning to love the patches. Imperfections are just fine with me. Floorboards buckle from the fireplace hearth to the front door. The kitchen counter is old laminate, enhanced by chips and knife marks that defy repair. Roof shingles have long outlived their warranty. And faded yellow paint covers bedroom walls where water stains discolor the windowsills.

Down the road, trucks buzz daily with dirt from our new neighbor’s massive excavation. He replanted mature trees to ring the property where horses grazed last summer, guaranteeing privacy before the behemoth dwelling has arisen.

The supplement in today’s paper promoted a starchitect’s vision of the Vineyard. Blown glass hanging lights frame a photo of the beckoning ocean outside. Nearby is a symmetrically aligned in-ground pool. The text trumpets: “It’s not just a home. It’s where you live,” ignoring the other 10 months of the year, as if somehow they don’t count. And perhaps they don’t when it’s your third or fourth house.

Each year people wonder whether the Vineyard has reached its tipping point. Statistics for summer traffic culled from the Steamship Authority subtly pose the same questions: Has the Island been gobbled up by summer people? Have too many cars and houses and lifestyles of the people from away finally consumed the essential Vineyard? Are Robert Lowell’s moonlit skunks still welcome beneath the Trinitarian Church on Main street?

I think of the Manhattan money man, who when asked, “How much is enough?,” replied “More.”

The other day a contractor I know told me he was working at a Katama mansion where the owners had covered their lawn with expensive goose-repelling spray, only to find that the crapping resumed the moment they left.

Trucked-in trees, guaranteed goose repellent — are all these expensive products of summer perfection a byproduct of the quest for casual luxury? Do they make summer any better? If summer is a feeling, must it really cost a gazillion to enjoy?

It seems that luxury has become an aspiration these days, a lifestyle to attain that celebrates the achievement of more. I wonder if this is an updated version of the old keeping up with the Joneses, or has it risen to a new level that distorts what summer is fundamentally all about.

For my part, I’m learning to love the imperfections. Sometimes more is too much. A home is a trampled, scuffed up and banged up mishmash of lives lived. See the wall where the height of children has been carefully pencil marked over the years. Heirloom or eyesore? Would you paint it over?

John Rosenmiller lives in West Tisbury and New York city.