“Raise your right hand,” said the official.

I raised my hand.

“Now repeat after me. I solemnly declare …”

“I solemnly declare …”

“I will not return library books late or fail to wash mud and chocolate off my hands before returning books in the library return slot.”

I repeated the declaration.

“Hurry up, Dumbo. I want to check out my books.”

A classmate nudged me from behind while I was imagining a solemn ceremony of slipping into a grown-up role — the application for obtaining my first library card. I printed my name on the form, ignoring the classmate who probably returned books dog-chewed and dirty.

Now a new era. Candidates receive coveted positions or are simply reassigned.

I’m considering volunteering to be the Under Secretary for the Under Secretary to the Ambassador for Books.

I’ve had experience — I’ve been a card-carrying library patron for several decades. The smallest library I’ve visited — actually on wheels. The librarian and driver chugged down our gravel road in a rural area in the Midwest. They brought books we’d requested. I saw that the neighboring hog farmer’s family came. The wife, BettySue Lutefisk, always asked for light romance. I imagined the day the bookmobile came.

BettySue opened a paperback book, her eyes glazed over as she read, “Reginald reached for the fair maiden’s hand, nibbled on her fingers like a trout about to take the bait. The maiden looked into Reginald’s eyes …”

“Hey, BettySue. Grab another sack of hog grain for pen number 4,” hollered Mr. Lutefisk as he pitchforked the hog-soiled straw into a wheelbarrow.

I might have smiled but when I got back from the bookmobile, I found my own challenge. I’d mixed flour, yeast, and a quart of sourdough start, and forgot to put the mix in a larger bowl.

When the family returned to the house, a slurry of sourdough had bubbled over the top of the bowl and oozed down into the silverware drawer.

Beside the small libraries I grouped the medium-sized libraries — often the only ones in the towns or county or are branch libraries.

An art project the impetus to head to a library while visiting family.

Scene: College student housing for families — one family with toddler and a baby. Rainy day. Artwork: toothpaste paintings across grandma’s luggage per toddler. Children bundled up, off to town library. Spacious, children-friendly room. Next, tour of branch libraries. One theme: forestry. Another library — remodeled church, few pews for parents, warm carpet for kid storytime, a rocking chair for a “granny reader.”

Another state — out West. Another medium-sized library. I think of it as “grandfather clock library.” A favorite. A donated grandfather clock in the “invite-you-to-sit-in-a comfy-chair-and-read nook.” The clock modest — not a grand oak or cherry, highly carved. More like a DIY- stained pine clock. A friendly clock. Our family didn’t live in that county, but a modest fee gave us library cards.

And then there is the “large” library. This one, five stories tall. How could it also not be a favorite? Perhaps it’s more about a librarian.

It starts with a Carnegie library in the early 1900s. Andrew Carnegie, the philanthropist and businessman, built libraries. In time, the town outgrew the Carnegie library and a push was made to build a larger one. In the 1960s a head librarian, Miss Santee, became the advocate and leader for building a larger library. When I knew her, she was elderly, approachable, highly respected. I was young and timid.

With the courage of being a library patron, I approached her. She answered my question as though I was a valued patron of libraries. The town grew. She finally got her five-story library.