I spend much of the summer months in a family cottage on Cape Cod. We call it “The Compound,” a playful allusion to the Kennedy clan’s retreat in nearby Hyannis, because the land is made up of for four buildings on one plot of land. Like all the cottages around me, mine is a seasonal space and has been in the family for decades. And so, the people here are well known to me, as are their families that often share these small shacks. I know the grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws, sisters, and brothers of most of my neighbors, and could probably construct their family trees with far more accuracy than I could my own.

 The cottages in the compound and those around me enjoy a close proximity to the beaches, their true value, and afford only the basics of daily living. This is perhaps the truer value for me, and what I love most about my patch of earth here—I am forced to live a simple, low maintenance life. As a result, I am free to spend my time focusing on my writing. In addition to being an editor, I also write and develop school curriculum. I also harbor dreams of one day publishing the novel I recently finished and, who knows, perhaps the other I recently began.

Good for the soul, it’s been said, stripping down our lives to modest necessities. And it would be, too, good for my soul that is, if it weren’t for some of those around me, in and around the compound. Take for example, one neighbor, Tony, as in “Take my neighbor, please.”

Tony is a good enough guy. Off the boat from Italy when he was 16 he once told me, learning the language and assimilating all on his own. But what Tony hasn’t assimilated to when he’s here on this peaceful peninsula is simple living. The man does not know how to rest, constantly tending to his yard, his gardens, and his unique remodeling projects (one of which included installing a double-hung window sideways). He also does not know when not to turn on his power tools or when to turn off the country music. Worst of all, he also fails to squelch the resounding belch that I can hear—often several times a day—100 yards away. (No small feat, I’m sure, but one for which I’m equally sure there are no awards.)

And then there’s Dave, whose cottage is just feet away.  He likes to collect miscellaneous pieces of junk from the Swap Shop at the local dump to stack against our shared stockade fence. On the roof of my shed, I have a small weathervane. On the roof of Dave’s shed is often two or three 50-gallon bags of household trash. I see them there each morning when I sit on the deck with a cup of coffee. “To keep the raccoons away,” he said when I first made inquiry.  Unable to help myself, I said, “I find it just as easy to put my trash inside the shed.” This made him laugh quite heartily and shake his head, as if my idea were more absurd than his.

This is the sacrifice one must make with cottage living—sharing your space with so many neighbors. Ones that let their dogs bark for hours while they’re out for dinner and you’re trying to enjoy yours at home, ones that extend the July 4^th fireworks well into August (and often late into the night when my startle response is at its highest), ones that fail to maintain their property, or engage in the annoying habit of hanging their beach towels to dry on another fence, this one split rail. And also mine. Some days I think of the line from the Robert Frost poem, Mending Wall, that “Fences make good neighbors.” Then I think, no, not so much.

Deep down, I know it’s good for me to be exposed to annoyances I cannot control nor make sense of. It forces me to acknowledge my perverse need for order and balance while surrounded by those who do not. I sometimes succeed, especially when I focus on the more positive aspects of my neighbors, such as our April “opening-up” conversations, where we meet at the fence and catch up, talk about our winters far from this glorious place. We wave and say hello throughout the season, sharing more talks over the fence, accepting an occasional invitation for a BBQ or drinks. Our histories are interconnected, having shared this space for so long. I’ve seen kids grow, parents age, children leave, wives and husbands welcomed into new families. I’ve witnessed the glow of a new grandmother, the pride of a father sharing a child’s accomplishments. We’ve cried together over illness or heartache, held a hand when a spouse left, shared stories meant to inspire, fostered hope when none seemed available. A large part of me knows that I’d miss these people if they weren’t here. A smaller part of me acknowledges that one day they won’t.

But then the belching starts. The country music gets louder. The dogs start barking. Firecrackers are lit. And lit again and yet again. More crap gets stacked against a fence that is now leaning from the weight. Power tools sputter to life at 6 AM on a Sunday morning. And suddenly I wonder if maybe I should just head back to my quiet home in the woods for a while.

Simple living is good for the soul, I remind myself as I spy Rose next door hanging some beach towels along my fence. I  feel my teeth clench through an annoyed sigh. Then I notice her sagging shoulders, her face reflecting some inner angst. I think perhaps I’ll invite Rose over for some tea, find out how she’s faring with her mother’s latest health crisis.

It’s late summer. Time is fleeting. So, for now, I decide to stay among friends and put on a pot of water instead.