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I grew up in Brooklyn. I lived in apartment buildings without elevators or air-conditioning. In the beginning, I walked to school. Later, in high school, I took an elevated train. To get to the beach at Coney Island, I took a trolley.

The moment I set foot out of the door of my apartment, there were people everywhere -- neighbors, friends, the superintendent of our building, shop keepers, bus drivers, policemen, teachers, relatives, and strangers who passed through my life every minute of every day.

It was never quiet in our apartment. Sounds of the lives of other families came in through the walls, doors, and windows. There was no way to shut out the sounds of babies crying, traffic, dogs barking, radios, and people talking or fighting. My brother had trouble concentrating on his homework amid all that noise. He resorted to using earplugs.

Manhattan was a train ride away but the magnetic lure of all it offered drew my friends and me there all the time. Manhattan was college, theater, restaurants and museums. It was high fashion as well as the excitement of new discoveries. Girls traveled to and from the city safely, without supervision, in those days.

Later, when I lived in the suburbs, I still considered myself a "city person" with all that designation entailed. I went to the city to work and to play. I knew the Broadway shows, concerts, operas, and museum exhibits as well as the politics and politicians of the city.

Years later, when the time came to relocate for retirement living, we looked at some of the over-55 communities that are prevalent in New Jersey, Arizona, California, and Las Vegas. We chose one in Florida.

The community was in its infancy. Only a few homes had been built and occupied when we arrived, although ultimately 1,300 units had been planned. There were no other such developments in the area. No major road came up this far. No stores were reachable on foot. Several miles away, we ate at a Friday's restaurant and watched cows grazing in empty fields across the road.

Our new house was on a huge lake with birds of all kinds as well as a few baby alligators. In the beginning, there was one swimming pool for the community. A clubhouse was a year's dream away. There was a tiny public library and a small movie theater reachable by car. No performing arts centers or museums were available at that time without driving long distances. In a way, it was like living on Thoreau's Walden Pond, contemplating life and nature in all its glory.

I loved it. Watching the sun blaze down at the end of the day on a lake full of birds, amid flowering shrubs and palm trees was glorious.

Once, when my son was visiting, we were sitting on the patio toward evening.

"It's so quiet," I said, "that if you listen you can hear the sound of birds' wings flapping as they pass overhead. Isn't it wonderful?"

He listened. "Boring," he said.

To him, it was dull. To me, it was lovely. Perfect and serene, it was idyllic country life. It was the beauty of nature as told to me many years before by my grandmother, who grew up and lived on a farm in Europe.

Unfortunately, it didn't last. All 1,300 units were completed and occupied. Four more swimming pools were built. A huge clubhouse -- with a 600-seat theater, gyms, cafe, craft rooms, card rooms, and billiards -- was added. Many other such communities arose around us. Although residents fought with politicians to preserve what we had, stores, movies, restaurants, and malls invaded the area.

City planning was poor or non-existent. Major roads were extended to reach us. Traffic got heavy on highways and major streets. The stress of driving returned. True privacy was gone.

Across the street from the Friday's where we had watched the cows graze, a mall covered the fields. As it was built, I hated every brick that was put in place. That mall signified that my living rural was over. Civilization and progress took over. I had been content to have city life far away. I didn't think this would happen.

I liked living near a street called Flavor Pict because it had once been somebody's farm. My husband liked hearing stories from his barber about hunting on the land near us. We didn't like seeing ancient trees destroyed to make way for more houses.

I remember once going to a wedding north of us and coming home in the dark on a road with one lane in each direction, lined by grasses as high as the car, and no lights but the moon and stars. I liked seeing a turtle slowly cross my street as an egret strutted across my neighbor's lawn.

I liked living in the country, informal and not easily reachable, but you can't stop progress. Fortunately, however, some city planners were successful in keeping two nature preserves and a Japanese garden intact. We can always go there and shut out noise, traffic, and commercial activities. At least those refuges, though not as large as Central Park, will always be there for those of us who treasure living rural.

Toby Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in Boynton Beach, Fla.