A Library Card

“Mom, can I ride my bike to the library?”

I held my breath. Mom knew the route: more than a mile, under an interstate, across two busy streets and an active railroad. But, by the middle of summer vacation, I was bored and desperate.

Mom was silent. I didn’t disturb her.

After a moment that seemed like an hour, she spoke. “Okay. But be careful, and walk your bike across the streets and the tracks.”

My spirits soared. I hooked a bag over my handlebars and pedaled off into the summer heat. Thirty minutes later, I stood over a library air conditioning vent that blew away my fatigue.

Triumphant over obstacles, heat and boredom, I presented my choice for checkout.

The librarian glanced at my selection. “Do you have a library card?”

“No.”

“You’ll have to fill out an application, and I’ll need to see your ID.”

ID? I was 11. What ID? Schools didn’t even issue them. Near home, a flash of brilliance struck. It seemed sound, but dicey. Still, it was my only shot.

The next day, I strode to the librarian’s desk and presented the application along with my ID. I’d cut out a blank card from the side of a box and filled it out, even taping a school photo in the square reserved for a picture. The gray-haired librarian studied the documents through her glasses, then turned to regard the skinny, sweat-stained boy. She held my gaze. I held my breath.

“Okay,” she said.

In minutes, I held my first library card.

I never knew why this saintly lady pronounced my cobbled ID satisfactory. Maybe she thought I deserved a reward for creativity and perseverance. But, I think this lady had children. Like my mother did when granting permission, she did what a mom would do.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.