I have no idea when or why I decided I wanted to live in Massachusetts. Maybe it was its history, or its intellectual reputation. Maybe it was the beautiful photographs that graced the calendars that oil companies handed out. The ones printed on thick, yellowish paper, with pouches to keep receipts, bills and invitations close at hand.

Wonder what happened to those calendars. Haven’t seen one in years.

I arrived, with a husband, in January 1976, not in Massachusetts, but in New Hampshire. That presidential election year also marked the nation’s second century. I had apprenticed as a journalist in Michigan, writing and editing a weekly paper for lawyers and bankers. I hoped to find work, either with a daily paper in a medium-size city that would lead to my becoming the Boston Globe’s drama critic, or as an editorial assistant at a publishing house, to finally become an editor alluded to as the new Nan Talese.

Neither of those things would happen. I diligently applied for jobs, often without responses. Winter ended, its snow melted. Daylight expanded. My salesman husband was bound for a convention. After dropping him at the airport, on the way home I saw a sign on a small building with a sign that read, “Employment Agency.” I called the agency. The phone was promptly answered by a woman who identified herself as the president.

I outlined my degrees, my experience, my goals. I offered to send writing samples, but she said, “Don’t bother. We don’t hire Midwesterners. They’re never well educated.”

The next day, I made my first trip to Harvard Square. Under the warm, late spring sun, I walked for hours. I found so many bookstores that a map was available to locate them. At a small shop that sold Welsh crafts, I bought a pair of mugs emblazoned with dragons. I found another shop that sold clothes from Finland. At a record store, I had a long and interesting conversation on music. I walked past Club Passim and silently saluted its history.

H-Square became my refuge, because in this neighborhood of nostalgia, bits of the ’60s lingered. Over the next two years, I too lingered, but as we shifted from being a couple to being parents, my time in H-SQ closed. However, opportunities still came to me. I stopped spending Saturday evenings on the shores Lake Wobegon and tuned into Irish music.

My kids fell in love with Tolkien, Madeleine L’Engle and tales of King Arthur. I began researching Arthur with the intention of writing a book for them. One autumnal Saturday, a public service announcement on the Irish music program announced a lecture on Irish mythology, open to the public, at Harvard. The next Thursday found me in a small room crammed with faculty and grad students.

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In the spring, I was back in H-SQ, taking an evening class. At least one morning a week, I bought my toddler with me to Widener Library. My son would insist we use the same computer, and he delighted in pressing the button that sent chosen articles and call numbers to the printer.

Just as I had changed, I thought the Square had changed. The numbers of bookshops declined and the air of nostalgia evaporated. It became a place to bring a small child to the same restaurant where he always ordered “a hangaburger.”

Halfway through the semester, I promised myself if I earned an A, I would apply to Harvard Extension as grad student. I paid little attention to the Square, while concentrating on my kids, my studies, and later, my divorce.

During this time, I volunteered at Club Passim. My older kids, then in their teens, benefited from the subway tokens and the commuter rail passes I left in a bowl on the dining room table. As a family, we ushered at the American Repertory Theater. My friends became friends of the children.

After earning my degree, I found myself repeating the endless job hunting of the late ’70s. When I returned the Square again for a concert, I was a grandmother teaching as an adjunct. The Square was shuttered and dark. Few restaurants were open. I thought this, place is finished. I moved across the state.

Over the last two autumns, I returned to the Square for the Celtic Department’s annual colloquium. I stayed for the opening address and reception. With the exception of Club Passim and Bartley’s Burger Cottage, there was nothing left of the Square as I first knew it. Young people, who I presumed were students, lined up around what were probably places of entertainment. The Square had become a place of glitz and bright lights. Of course, after nearly half a century, what can one expect but change? At least, it survived.

Susan Wozniak has been a caseworker, a college professor and journalist. She is a mother and grandmother.