Writing class

Sixteen autumns ago, when my younger son Jack was a baby, I took a writing class in Harvard Square.  Wednesday morning was the high point of my week.  I would riffle through my closet, trying to pull together an outfit that wasn't stained with spit up and that didn't shout out "suburban housewife," the babysitter would arrive, and I would jump into my car and head down Mass Ave., thrilled to have an excuse to buy a new notebook and a nice pen, to be out and about without an infant in a...