I’m glad I do not own a camp, cottage, cabin by the lake, summer place, lodge, second home, private island or Cliffside Aerie — that last one likely some quaint little nook of a retreat, a modest hideaway with only a staff of maybe eight or nine, not counting the local gardeners and lawn care folks and, of course, the part-time help. I do not have a home with a cute name, Birdsong Haven or Saltsplash Manor. Forgive me if I’ve stumbled onto the actual monicker of your place — I swear I thought I was making these up. If I had such a vacation home, no doubt I’d be trying to figure out whether I should go there this summer. Possessed of but one residence, I am off the hook for that particular ethical struggle — and grateful for the simplicity such privation affords.

They keep calling, our seasonal-resident friends, to get the sense of the island in these days of contagion and anxiety and a surfeit of rules. Thank you, I say to them, as I sit beside my woodstove because it’s still 51 degrees on Matinicus and I’m barely even conscious of summer. Thank you for even trying. Thank you for not being among those who blurt out, “Turn on my place because I’m coming anyway no matter what anybody thinks.” It’s always nice to connect with friends — and many truly are friends, real friends — but I don’t know how to answer their gentle queries. Checking in with someone who has been here all winter is friendly, but nobody is in charge of coronavirus rusticating, and nobody is in charge of common sense and, to be frank, nobody is in charge of this island (or of your favorite unorganized territory up in the woods). It’s going to be entirely up to you whether you make the trip — to here, to anywhere.

Nobody — not the plumber who opens your house, not your part-time select board, not your buddy the year-round lobsterman or logger — can tell you whether or not you should travel to your summer place. There are too many variables.

The state rule about staying put for 14 days assumes you will shop for two weeks’ worth of supplies in your departure community, load your vehicle, drive directly to your summer destination interacting with nobody on the way, and sit tight for a couple of weeks upon arrival, contentedly drinking martinis and reading comic books or whatever under the shade of your own apple tree. Yeah; right. The anecdotal evidence is not strong for that one.

But that sure does sound like a good vacation. I’d think about doing it, if I had a camp with an apple tree.

This would be a good time to study the difference between actual self-sufficiency and the completely make-believe “self-sufficiency” indulged in by entitled ding-heads who think that anything they wish for can be had simply by waving dollars about. Forget that; I hear that in some places, the servants are rebelling this year.

It isn’t my place to ask, but I also wonder, “What are you going to accomplish” by going to the house in Maine? Is there a leaking roof that demands repair, or are you just being sentimental? Those are not the same thing. They do not hold the same moral water.

From where are you traveling? Oh, no! Better not dig into that subject! People don’t want to talk about that! Those who can afford to bolt from their “hot-spots,” running the blockade as it were, might do so despite any advisories and cautions a small town can offer. “Have Butterfield load the Lexus, darling; summer just wouldn’t be the same without our weekend at Starchcrest. Oh, and remember to text the pool boy. . . .”

All in fun, and we don’t have that particular demographic on Matinicus. Still, there are always people who think, “I’m different. All this stuff people are saying — it doesn’t mean me.”

It’s more than just whether the ferry deckhand or the back-country store clerk might catch this virus from you; it’s also about being a thoughtful community member. This whole, awful disease might just highlight the difference between good neighbors and classic, stereotypical summer jerks. We’re pretty lucky here, but some places have it rough. Enjoy your favorite Maine spot, if you can do it safely, but don’t luxuriate in being an item on somebody’s chore list. The people who fit that description do not know it, so I’m sure I just sound like a crank and malcontent even offering these thoughts.

I’m not, though. I am a certified flower-sniffing, tune-humming, positive-attitude person, except when confronted by needy types who, perhaps subconsciously, like the idea of having servants. My gut reaction to those folks, especially this year, is “What the hell is the matter with you?”