Breakfast in Scarborough

I believe an ideal library should have adjoining grounds full of greenery. This expectation can be traced to my childhood home near William Jewell College, whose library sat on top of a hill blessed with abundant large trees. Thus spoiled, I tend to want a tree to be waiting for me and my new book when I exit a library. With ample lawns and tree cover on three sides, High Park branch provided just such an opportunity.

The interior of this historic Carnegie-funded library didn’t fall short of aesthetic ideals, either. Boasting a high timbered ceiling on the second floor like its sister branches, Wychwood (1916) and Beaches (1916), High Park’s Edwardian dignity created a calm, even sanctified atmosphere. Indeed, one of the librarians told me that patrons often ask her if the building used to be a church. In truth, it has never been used for religious purposes, unless you count the Christmas carollers who find a natural perch on the mini-third floor on the east side, projecting their voices into the depth of space.

I trotted up the steps to the singing and reading platform, glorying in the perspective it provided. Standing on this inward-facing balcony, I could take in the entire south wing of the upper level. I enjoyed looking at the dark brown timbers, the central stripe of orange paint, the stone hearth, and the painting above it. From my heightened stance, I speculated about all the thousands of thoughts, from the dullest to the most sublime, which have floated in the air far above the readers’ heads for almost a century! Quiet gentlemen in cuff links might have taken unplanned naps or composed purple poems to flappers. Such a soaring ceiling couldn’t help but play host to a rich silence full of unvoiced flights of fancy.

I appreciated the contemplative separateness of the inner balcony, the way it provided a place apart to think and study. When I returned to the second floor proper, I discovered another nook along the south wall. This alcove held the Jobs and Literacy collection and a hopeful skylight. It seemed the perfect spot to make big decisions about personal and professional development.

Not far from the sunny alcove resided an extensive Polish collection, which included the sample pictured below. I wished I could just pick up and read a page or two, but my brief trip to Poland in 1992 only equipped me with a few greetings and the odd vocabulary word, mostly food-related.

After tilting my head back for a serious bout of window-gazing, I walked to the north wing, only to find more windows to appreciate, especially a large one facing the side of Emmanuel Howard Park United Church. The table in front of it was a gorgeous day-dreaming spot, as was the Teen Zone with its reading bench shaped like half of a picture-frame. Both the Teen corner and the fiction section had a wonderful air of openness thanks to the high windows that overlooked the greenery below.

The expansiveness of the upper floor gave way to a cozier lower level, which was primarily devoted to children’s materials. The Kid’s Section was supervised by a friendly whale who didn’t seem to mind having been captured mid-leap and suspended from a library ceiling. The marine mammal looked like an amiable creature but not one to underestimate, especially as it guarded access to the air conditioning unit.

To the right of the whale was a carpeted reading theatre. The stage was empty on the afternoon of my visit, but it was heartening to see a family gathered around a nearby low table. As a father read a story about pigs to his young daughter, I recalled the wonderful sound of my dad’s voice when he used to read The Little Engine that Could, Green Eggs and Ham, and The Tale of Peter Rabbit. My love of books and libraries started with the precious gift both of my parents gave me, which was taking time to read to me when I was very small.

Before taking leave of High Park Library, I stopped to appreciate a flamingo, a hippo, and a giraffe. The hippo was the most gregarious of the three animals, but I also liked how the bird’s stoicism balanced the quiet optimism of the giraffe. A gorgeous sun warmed the giraffe’s neck, its rays separate entities in intense orange and yellow. I thought the colorful animal portraits brought a welcome playfulness to this seriously classy historic branch.

About three weeks ago, I took the #83 bus south from Donlands subway station to Jones Library (1962). Even though it was my second visit, the experience was first-time fresh because I noticed so many more details. For example, I’d previously walked right past a wonderful textile art tableau that was displayed behind glass just beside the entrance.

Created by April Quan, the same artist who fashioned the woolen castle at Deer Park branch, the Jones piece also featured a castle but expanded to include a happy reader in a hammock and a studious mechanic. I loved the way the prince seemed to be saying, “Come on out of the book, princess.” The royal couple looked unfazed by the presence of a car instead of a carriage and a hammock instead of a bed piled with mattresses on top of a pea. The path to the castle looked mighty steep, so perhaps they would soon need to give the horse-free carriage a try.

Stone, wood, and sunshine greeted my eyes when I walked through the entrance. With the skylight’s help, the wooden floors glowed, and a stone wall near a large decorative quilt further warmed this small neighbourhood branch. Many patrons were taking advantage of the extensive Chinese collection, which included newspapers and magazines, and the space was lively with exuberant young computer users.

Hanging on the wall above the computers was the gorgeous quilt. A nearby notice explained that it was a Victorian Crazy Quilt which had been completed in six sessions earlier this year by “volunteer quilters under the direction of textile artist Sandra Reford.” The results of their artistic collaboration really impressed and delighted me. I loved how the quilt hummed and vibrated with colour. I could have studied it for hours and found new patterns and pictures, but the following images immediately jumped out: planets, suns, beach balls, tents, flowers, teddy bears, a pineapple, and an elephant. Like a collage, the crazy quilt unified all these disparate elements into one coherent whole.

For a branch with only 3,636 square feet of floor space, there was a lot to see at Jones. Around the corner from the quilt was a wooden puppet theatre with a black velvet curtain. Leafy boughs filled the windows facing Dundas Street East, and original art decorated the walls above the children’s bookshelves. My favourite was Shazina’s heart-centred LOVE painting. Thick green and yellow letters spelled the most important word of all.

I had a few requests to post a eulogy that I gave in Kansas City last Saturday. The meadow picture below was projected on a screen as I gave a short talk in honour of my childhood friend, Jenny Smith Carr. I found the Swiss meadow image in the Picture Collection of the Toronto Public Library, but there wasn’t any reference to the photographer who took this calendar photograph. The text of the eulogy follows the picture.

Jenny’s Purple Meadow

A few months ago Jenny asked me if the news of her cancer diagnosis had made me think about my own mortality. I said, “Sure it does. You’re a part of me.” She’ll always be a part of me, a precious patch of Jenny-ness that inspires and sustains me.

When I visualize the color and texture of this Jenny-patch in my soul, I see a set of translucent paddles in primary colors. Jenny is the red paddle. I’m the blue paddle. And the purple place where we overlap is the part of Jenny I get to keep, a purple meadow of shared memories, experiences, values, and giggles. Jenny’s meadow is a clearing in my mind, a sunny expanse of wildflowers surrounded by an ancient forest.

My hope for all of us who were blessed to love our Jenny is to frequently visit our clearings, for they are sacred sites of Jenny-ness that death cannot destroy. This afternoon, I’m taking you with me to Jenny’s purple meadow, where stories flower beside a purple stream, among clumps of irises and daisies, and in the hollows of warm stones.

Take this wildflower over here. It’s a story set in the late nineteen seventies. Jenny and I are trick-or-treating along Mill Street in Liberty. As radical young questioners of gender roles, we have disguised ourselves as housewives. We have put pink curlers in our hair and wrapped ourselves in padded polyester bathrobes. Fuzzy slippers pull the satirical outfit together. At one fateful house on Mill Street, the woman who answers our knock is dressed exactly like us, down to the last curler. She gives us a few pieces of candy but no compliments on our cute costumes.

Many of my Jenny memories come from Camp Oakledge in Warsaw, Missouri. I was very lucky to spend two summers sharing a canvas tent on a wooden platform with Jenny and other fellow Girl Scouts. One afternoon, Jenny and I canoed about three miles across the Lake of the Ozarks to a hamburger shack perched on a dock. I still remember how good that burger tasted because we had powered ourselves across the waters, earning our lunch with our oars.

In February of 1982, Jenny and I went on a winter campout in Dearborn, Missouri. We shivered together in a tent that we had placed on slope of a hill. When the leaders of the campout organized a midnight hike, Jenny opted to stay in the tent, but I went out. We walked to the edge of a clearing in the woods and drank in a breathtaking bowl-shaped meadow all blanketed with deep snow. The dark ring of trees circling all that open space was a visual prayer. When I think of Jenny, I remember this winter meadow. Like her, it is spiritually refreshing and elegant.

The intense starry sky of the night hike also reminds me of a more recent night. A couple of Thursdays ago, a group of Jenny’s close friends made a plan to look at the sky together at 10 pm (eastern time) and send out beams of love to our dying friend. Wind chimes, lightning, singing locusts, clear skies and cloudy ones greeted us from Arizona, Missouri, Ohio, Connecticut, and Ontario. I thought of how much I love Jenny and cried when I remembered her blog entry about the pain of the biopsy needles.

She’s beyond the needles now, beyond pain, beyond fear. She’s a gorgeous bird of paradise. She’s the drops of rain that bless us. And she’s in every compassionate thing we do. Her purple meadow is alive with sensitivity, laughter, and thousands of kind words. We protect it when we share stories of our beautiful Jenny.

Yesterday I received news that a dear childhood friend had died. As Jenny’s terminal illness progressed over the past few months, I found myself thinking of forest clearings and how much she loved nature. I wanted to make a memory collage that included meadows, so I went to the Picture Collection on the second floor and pulled out a lovely fat folder labelled “meadows.” I was amazed at how much it comforted me to look at those beautiful pictures. I felt connected to Jenny and to our shared experience of camping in Northwest Missouri and the Ozarks.

Last month I received a very kind e-mail from April Quan, the artist who created the woolen castle for Deer Park Library in 2000. She explained that three pennants and a collection of small human figures had been plundered from the piece more than eight years ago. The fact that her delightful castle was mentioned and appreciated in my blog post about Deer Park motivated Ms. Quan to restore the missing features and return it to its original glory. It makes me so happy to think that my library blog played some role in the castle’s evolution!

More recently, April responded to my query about the source of her inspiration to use wool. She replied: “The wool is recycled fabric from the big Goodwill store that used to be at Adelaide and Jarvis . . . (the store had) a perfect winter coat just waiting to be turned into stone. . . . The turrets and grass were skirts from the same store.” For many years, April used her creative skills to make toys from natural materials like wool to raise money for her children’s school.

Three Cheers for The Restored Woolen Castle!

On a recent weekend visit to remote Elliot Lake, Stewart and a friend who was living there indulged me in a visit to Elliot Lake Library when we could have gone directly to a lake. My friend took us inside the town’s quiet 1980′s mall, where we found a wonderful Bibliothèque/Library. It was much larger than the Toronto mall libraries I’ve visited, such as Woodside Square, Eglinton Square, Maryvale, Steeles, Bridlewood, Black Creek, and Bayview.

With large glass windows facing a wide mall corridor, this library contained spacious east and west wings. The entrance was on the west side, which housed non-fiction, reference, and a collection of computers. A giant quilt tapestry showed off Canadian-themed appliqués, and across the room was a giant dream catcher. Around the corner from the visionary piece stood a display of fishing rods, tackle, and thick booklets in English and French about fishing regulations. Stewart also noticed a large section devoted to Mining Environmental Assessment Reports.

Crossing over to the east wing, I discovered an entire wall devoted to French books. I’m not sure why this surprised me; maybe I thought small towns and monolingualism went together. To my knowledge, the only Toronto Public Library branch with a comparable French collection would be North York Central.

Opposite the French-materials wall was a fairy-tale mural painted by L. Finn in 1992. Springing from the pages of a children’s book were a host of classic characters: Ali Baba, Alice in Wonderland, Puss-n-Boots (who was struggling to remove his famous footwear), Little Red Riding Hood, and Babe the Blue Ox. Not far from the lively mural, the family reading area had all the necessary elements for library entertainment: a plastic globe with a talking airplane, two rocking chairs (one large and one small with painted jungle animals), and kid-size mats with triangular wedges for upper-body support. Although this section was mostly empty, it was easy to imagine how cozy it would be with more families present.

Walking over to the check-out to pay for some old National Geographics, I handed over a dollar and marvelled at my purchasing power (four magazines at a quarter each). It felt odd not being able to check anything out, but then again I wouldn’t want to drive for seven hours to return a book. At any rate, why complain about lack of borrowing privileges when I just got to visit my most northern branch to date!

Last Thursday I took the Broadview streetcar from downtown to Riverdale Library. Although I always enjoy visiting this wedge of historical architecture, last week I found its red-brick solidity an especially welcome contrast to the uneasy atmosphere leading up to the G-20 Summit.

Heavy wooden doors opened to the spaciousness of the lobby, inviting patrons to breathe freely. A soaring white ceiling, skylight, columns, and wide aisles all worked together to create a sense of freedom and possibility, exactly what a Georgian Revival edifice should convey! I felt my own spirits revive when I gazed at the skylight, and I sent a silent message of thanks skyward to Andrew Carnegie. As recorded in A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983, Carnegie provided the initial funding for this library and three others in 1903 (Penman, 16). Ultimately, he would finance ten TPL branches.

My window seat antennae led me to the northeast side of the library, where I found a wide curving bench. This lovely piece of reading furniture was an integral part of the children’s area, which also boasted a double-sided hearth and a Children’s Program Room with a matching window seat on the west wall. When I went inside this room, I found a puppet theatre and a leafless tree with a sign that read “Riverdale Tree: Do Not Remove.” (What was the story behind that stern note? Had dissident stagehands from a rival library been caught with the unwieldy object under their cloaks?)

Back in the main section of the kid’s wing, I noticed a substantial pirate ship on top of a central shelf and a Paddington Bear high overhead. Someone who was hopefully not a hostage-taker had taped Paddington to a wooden chair swing with a massive quantity of packing tape. Were staff concerned that the bear would fall onto the hapless heads of readers below? Lawsuits have sprouted over less, so it’s just as well that this bear is staying put in his lofty seat.

The central section of Riverdale contained a corner reserved for teens to flop on some pink and yellow cushions, a computer bay, and the magazine racks. Along the curved west wall, rows of tall shelves fanned out in a radial pattern. Following the curve to the southwest corner, I saw a sign which said “Quiet Community Room.” I opened the door and was surprised to find that it wasn’t quiet at all in there. About ten women were sitting at various tables with big thermoses and some snacks. When a couple of them gave me a half-smile which conveyed the question “What are you doing here?”, I realized that I was the one who had surprised them by disturbing their study break. I apologized to the teacher and retreated from what appeared to be an ESL class, judging from the vocabulary words written on the flip-chart.

To support the class and other learners, a strong ESL collection was only a thirty-second walk from the classroom. Vietnamese was represented, too, but the largest holdings were in Chinese. Multiple shelves offered Chinese fiction, non-fiction, DVD’s, and more.

From the multilingual collections, I moved further into the interior and sat down between two high shelves. With my head resting just below a classy wooden windowsill, I surveyed the materials available in my temporary domain: French dictionaries, self-help books, SAT preparation texts, mathematics books, and fashion guides. I enjoyed my bookish retreat for awhile, leafing through some sale magazines I’d bought and pausing to admire how vast the overhead space appeared from floor-level.

After my floor visit, I returned to the window seat to experience it in more depth. I took off my shoes, nestled against the wall where it formed a right angle with the seat, and rested my left arm on the upper ledge. It was the perfect place to journal about a recent trip to Missouri. I felt so fortunate to inhabit a quiet corner of this beautiful old library, enjoying the trees outside as well as the rumble of passing streetcars on Broadview Avenue. I also felt connected to the lucky Torontonians of a century ago who welcomed Riverdale Library into their lives.

Similar to Evelyn Gregory branch, Victoria Village Library fit right into its neighbourhood setting, taking its place among the generous number of trees along Sloane Avenue in Scarborough. With  pale green walls and leafy views from its high windows, Victoria Village’s interior was like a cheerful and well-stocked treehouse. Although built on a modest rise, I felt a generous sense of elevation when I looked out the big glass door in the west wall. From there, I could see high rise apartments in the distance and trees in the foreground between the library’s parking lot and that of a local school. Loads of fluffy clouds and blue sky further expanded the view.

When I turned towards the north wall, I noticed that the ceiling was lower over the Kids and Teen’s Section, creating a long and narrow space illuminated by more than a dozen high rectangular windows side by side. These windows served up a vision of mystical sky slices filled with leaves. More pragmatically, this part of the library contained ESL materials as well as offerings in French, Chinese, and Hindi.

In the Teen Zone, two homemade robot friends oversaw a busy study table from on top of a bookshelf. Both robots wore pie tins on their heads and had protruding egg-carton eyes taped to their aluminum faces. Large disposable baking tins provided their torsos, and their arms were foil-covered paper towel rolls with hands made from fuzzy silver pipe cleaners.

In the northeast corner of the kid’s section, a tired coyote rested its head on a bin of blocks. I wondered how he had ended up there and hoped it wasn’t a severe case of nausea. With his tongue hanging out and head tilted back, this poor coyote looked uncomfortable at best and sick at worst.

The rest of the main level consisted of a comfortable reading lounge and shelves of adult fiction and non-fiction. Though small, Victoria Village also boasted a downstairs community room. It was locked, but I was able to take a picture of a jolly puppet theatre from the hallway. Thanks to its north windows, the basement level was almost as sunny as the upper one.

I was reluctant to leave this restful branch, so I walked slowly around the north side of the building. There I discovered the tree responsible for filling the interior window panes so beautifully. With the setting sun pausing on its branches, it seemed the perfect image to close a blog post!

I’m blogging live from Kennedy/Eglinton branch with Joan, Raymon, and a few others.  I’ve been talking about my library blog and details like the window seats and tall grasses!

I’ve just asked the participants at today’s event what they like about the library. Joan likes the smell and the feel of books, the printed page. Raymon likes the resources such as the ProTech computer lab. He also likes the self check-out. One person liked the library’s friendly appearance and the helpful staff. The lady sitting behind him was amazed by the huge collections and size of North York Central Library. Finally, another participant has encouraged me to write a book!

I really enjoyed this opportunity to share my blog with Kennedy/Eglinton patrons. Thank you for inviting me!

In my library-blog enthusiasm, I started writing about Albert Campbell branch before I even left my vehicle. It was fun to prop my notebook on the Ontario Provincial Road Atlas, which in turn rested on the steering wheel, and write as the rain pelted the roof of the car and the six trees in front of it. A mesh fence was behind the trees, marking the boundary of a local school’s softball pitch and grassy field. I noticed a natural dirt path had been created by the feet of neighbours and schoolkids, marking a passage from the playground to the library. The footpath continued between the fence and the trees.

I listened to the rain for several more minutes and enjoyed the empty field bordered by trees, but I could no longer put off the mad wet scurry into the library. After I dashed through the lot to the lower back entrance, I briefly investigated the basement level. I discovered an auditorium humming in dimly-lit calm, where a yoga teacher was leading his group in a series of shoulder stretches.

Lowering my shoulders in sympathy, I returned to the lobby, which was papered with community information. Services included a team of Library Settlement Workers sponsored by CICS, with assistance offered in Bengali, Chinese, Tamil, and Urdu. These four languages were also represented in the multilingual collection, in addition to Greek, Italian, Kurdish, Persian, Spanish, Hindi, and Tagalog.

When I walked upstairs to the main lobby, a treasure trove of used books greeted me on two tables. By the time I finished my eager rummaging, I’d scored fourteen ESL and Adult Literacy books to give to my students. What a jackpot! Toting my selections, I spent about ten minutes admiring them on a  wonderfully fuzzy window bench. I liked how my latest reading perch was covered in tan carpet and enlivened by four potted plants.

As I further reacquainted myself with this branch, I remembered why I had been so taken with it the first time. Albert Campbell is like a giant educational 1970′s rumpus room with plenty of barrel and square shapes to add interest. I didn’t feel as if I had to be on my most proper behaviour here; I could even take part in a wild rumpus like the characters in Where the Wild Things Are. With so many carpeted surfaces and such wide aisles, nobody would get hurt when the rumpus escalated.

Increasing the playfulness, a lego platform effect was created by two sets of exposed staircases leading to the children’s section on the second level. The east and west sides of the platform had rounded tan carpeted ledges from which to observe the activity on the main floor. Too bad there weren’t any massive carpeted slides!

Unable to slide down to the main level, I contented myself with looking over the left side of the platform. From this vantage point, I beheld a pod of silent study carrels, tall shelves, and the crowns of patrons working at a double row of computers. I couldn’t see the Learning Centre, but I knew it was there directly below the platform. Then I crossed to the right side and noted the coat-hooks considerately placed at child-height on the inner side of the ledge. As I leaned against it, the check-out desk and newspaper lounge with its carpeted window perch came into view.

I found the decorations at Albert Campbell folksy and fun, from a small stone sculpture to the fanciful paper and cloth creations in the kid’s section. Four characters from The Wizard of Oz stood tall on top of a long bookshelf. On the north wall hung an enormous zodiac tapestry with paper images of scorpions, crabs, twins and so forth. (The bull looked somewhat dusty, but he was quite high up and difficult to reach). Not far from the Oz foursome, someone had propped four paper masks on top of individual high shelves. Their stern expressions seemed to say, “You better read your book or I’ll rustle my papery beak at you!”

After taking a few photos of the masks and a funky paper owl, I trotted down the east stairs. Then I settled into a private study carrel and constructed a pleasing study island with my bag of books, DVD’s, phone, and bottle of correction fluid. As I wrote in my journal, I could hear the tapping of keyboards, pages rustling, and the patient voice of a nearby math tutor three carrels to my right. It was the perfect place to spend a rainy Saturday morning.

When I finally left Albert Campbell, the rain had stopped. The sloping garden outside the main entrance looked especially fresh and rejuvenated, and I returned to my car with visions of irises dancing in my head.

I’ve visited McGregor Park Library numerous times, as I live near its Lawrence Avenue East and Birchmount location. However, my most recent trip to this branch was made with a blogger’s eye. (I like to carry a large plastic eyeball on a stick that I wave about in a technical manner). This way of experiencing a library requires activation of my detail-noticing antennae and a small notebook.

Before I entered the building, I spent a few minutes under the “cantilevered pedestrian canopy.” I really like this phrase, which I found in a website devoted to the City of Toronto’s Architecture and Urban Design Awards. In 2005, McGregor Park won Honourable Mention in the category of Building in Context for helping to “heal and mend a heavily stressed swatch of suburban fabric in Scarborough.” I had no idea my sample of suburban fabric was so stressed, but I am nevertheless glad for the successful 2004 reconstruction project which fused McGregor Park Library to a local community centre.

I advanced into the lobby, where I studied a display case to the right of the entrance. A colourful tapestry shouted SPRING in large quilted letters, and a purple and yellow butterfly hovered near some gardening books. Meanwhile, a purple bucket remained on standby for watering emergencies.

The seasonal theme continued in the children’s part of the library, where a librarian was helping a group of kids to decorate small flowerpots and fill them with real soil and seeds. It was a popular activity, and some kids waited more patiently than others for their gardening materials. One of the participants even went so far as to abandon the group altogether in favour of running and dancing on the wide window bench that wrapped itself around half of the large room. When I saw the windowseat, I understood the child’s choice. After all, the urge to jump on the windowseat was not a reflection of the merits of the flowerpot activity but rather a testimony to the irresistible appeal of high wooden expanses.

Even though they didn’t have flowerpots, the adults were equally happy to be in the library. Every last chair and table was spoken for, and the community room was also full. A film was in progress there as a supplement to the afternoon’s program: “The Aftermath of the Philippine Elections: Fiesta or Blues.” The Filipino connection to the local demographic was also reflected in the multilingual section, which offered Taglog as well as Tamil, Hindi, and Chinese.

After studying some of the beautiful scripts on the multilingual shelves, I looked up at the ceiling. I liked how it was higher and wider on the west side of the building, taking advantage of all the light pouring in from the walls of windows. The overhead space narrowed and lowered on the east side, sheltering the bookcases and tables there. The effect of the tapered ceiling was like being in the back of a scholarly cave, away from the wide sunny mouth of the opening. (For better or for worse, these are the kinds of analogies which flourish under the blogger’s eye treatment!)

Now known as Pape/Danforth, Danforth Library joined the Toronto cityscape in 1928, the same year as Runnymede branch did (and with the same price tag of $100,000). Pape/Danforth’s Tudor Revival style was an expression of Chief Librarian George Locke’s desire to make the building resemble a ye olde English shoppe: “The front facade is decidedly English in character, the lower part being carried out in stone and the upper in half timber work and stucco panels, with projecting bays surmounted by gables” (quotation cited on page 28 of Margaret Penman’s A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983).

More than a year before the library officially opened in 1929, Dr. Locke spoke to the Toronto Telegram on the topic of new branches: “You cannot make grown people good but you can make them more interesting . . . We are trying to make them more interesting by building libraries” (1 February, 1928). Was this statement a polite way of calling early 20th century Torontonians boring? Maybe George Locke was tired of them complaining about too much fiction in the libraries. And if Locke had found his fellow citizens more charming, would he have pushed to have more libraries built? I wonder if social scientists of the day were able to prove that witty conversation around Toronto dinner tables had increased in proportion to the growing number of libraries. With 99 libraries at present, we have no excuse to be dull!

Although Pape/Danforth must look quite different on the inside from when Dr. Locke knew it eighty-two years ago, I think he would have approved of the cheery rectangular swathes of space and sections of wooden flooring. While long and narrow, the two floors of the building manage to avoid claustrophobic overcrowding. For instance, the lemon yellow walls on the east side of the main floor made the children’s section seem quite spacious. Tucking books under a long window seat also saved space, making room for an olive-green cushion structure shaped like an amoeba. I was also fond of two stuffed dragons I spotted. They occupied a windowsill each, scaly ears peeled for stories about their cousins.

On the west side of the main floor was a square of wide-planked floorboards that were pleasant to clomp upon. Standing on this stationary wooden raft near the computers, I studied some artwork by Otilia Gruneatu Scriuba. Centaurs, fire, curls of column-tops, and a fit male form filled the canvases. (More of his paintings were on display on the wall beside the landing between the lower and upper floors).

A few paces away from the computers was a sunny reading lounge blessed with a bay window overlooking Pape Avenue. I appreciated the luxurious width of the bay windowsill; it seemed to be a sill for its own sake, celebrating its intrinsic value instead of being pressed into service as a bench or shelf. Opposite the bay window, a collection of objects in a display window caught my eye. An artistic hand had arranged a red shawl, some bamboo, a glossy necklace, and some books in honour of Asian Heritage Month. I liked this built-in shadow box with extra angles for more intrigue.

When I walked upstairs, I found another bay window directly above the one on the main level. Its sill was also very generous. In fact, it was so generous that one reader had pulled up a chair close to it and was resting her feet on the white sill. I hoped that she wasn’t going to leave footprints on the historic sill or a brown ring from her portable coffee mug. Quelling my inner gremlin of disapproval, I shifted my focus to innocent shelves that offered materials in Chinese, Greek, and French. A strong showing in ESL and Adult Literacy also impressed me. As I walked towards the Quiet Study Room at the back, I noticed a young patron sitting crossed-legged on the sill of a smaller bay window on the south wall. This particular seated tableaux didn’t bother me because no shoes were involved. On the contrary, I actually appreciated how she inhabited the space unconventionally, adding interest to the visual impact of the room.

I spent a few moments in the restful Quiet Study Room with its dove gray walls and dim light. Equipped with a sink and a small wooden puppet theatre, this room held lots of possibilities for coffee-fueled meetings and entertainment for the pre-coffee set. Before I left Pape/Danforth, I took one last look at this popular and well-utilized branch. A kind employee at the information desk interepreted my gaze as one of the “Where can I find something?” variety and asked me if I needed any help. Shaking my head no, I thanked her and descended the stairs feeling pleasantly acknowledged. What I really wanted to know, though, was if my visit had made me more interesting!

This morning I was thinking about which library to visit next for the blog. Way back in 2007, my first posts were more like notes than paragraphs. Before I sign off on the library blog project for good, I’d like to expand these early posts and add a few pictures. The following are the branches which await a second visit: Parliament, Saint James Town, City Hall, Toronto Reference Library, Lillian H. Smith, High Park, Leaside, Agincourt, Highland Creek, Port Union, Morningside, Cedarbrae (post-renovation), Guildwood, Cliffcrest, Bendale, McGregor Park, Victoria Village, Albert Campbell, Dawes Road, Main Street, Beaches, Jones, Pape-Danforth, and Riverdale.

Some branch descriptions need to be separated into individual posts, and others require more editing and expansion. The libraries that fall under these categories are Barbara Frum, Bayview, Fairview, Don Mills, Flemingdon Park, and Burrows Hall.

No beaches for me this summer unless they’re near Beaches Library!

The April 2010 edition of Shelf Life, Toronto Public Library‘s on-line newsletter, has a short article about my library blog. Check it out!

George Herbert Locke was the Toronto Public Library‘s second Chief Librarian, a position he held from 1908-1937. According to Margaret Penman’s A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983, the dynamic Locke defended the presence of fiction in the library system, created National Story Hours for children, and gathered materials in Russian, Yiddish, Italian, and Lithuanian for new immigrants (22-23). Penman believed that Locke’s greatest achievement was “the establishment of an integrated branch system . . . that provided for interrelated services in all parts of the city of Toronto” (24). Thank you George Locke for making my library quest possible!

A few weeks ago, Locke branch greeted me when I emerged from Lawrence subway station. A solidly handsome building, it was a fitting memorial for a man once described as a “strong, straight-grained, sinewy Irish-Canadian, six feet three inches tall, two hundred and sixty pounds” (19). Judging from George Locke’s picture, I could see how this “outstanding example of manhood at his best” (19) might have quickened the pulse of a few maiden librarians. (From 1883 until the late 1950′s, female librarians were not allowed to keep their jobs after they got married. A Century of Service further describes how these hard-working women were perceived as “vestal virgins tending the flame of literature and dancing around the figure of the chief librarian” (38)).

There were no dancing librarians, vestal or otherwise, on the day that I visited this sturdy stone branch. Sturdy didn’t translate as stodgy, though, for the outer solidity enhanced the interior’s classical openness. Flanked by steadying wooden columns, the central circulation desk was a calming focal point after entry. The entire floor resembled a gracious box with three sections side by side, all connected and flowing through space. If Locke Library were a dance, it would be a Viennese waltz performed by an elegant but not snobbish couple in their sixties.

To the left of the main desk was the Children’s/Teens Collection, which was blessed with a wooden seat beside a bay window that overlooked Lawrence Avenue. A large overhanging structure attached to the ceiling hosted eight parrots who faced away from the street. Each bird was swinging from the upper ramparts on individual stands, fine spots to observe library traffic below. Lower down on the structure were some toy animals who were hanging on for dear furry life. These precarious creatures included Skooby Doo, a lion, some bears, and a lone ape. The centerpiece critter was a toy Canada goose which soared higher than the rest; it hadn’t been forced to grasp the edges of the aerial trellis with its beak. More stuffed animals, including a jolly giraffe, led a less challenging existence on top of bookshelves.

The last fun feature of the young people’s area was an inviting nook in the northeast corner. With a large round window and lots of picture books, it captured a fairy-tale mood, making it the perfect setting for listening to the magic phrase “Once upon a time.”. On the quiet afternoon of my visit, an adult discussion was in progress in the story-nook; the debaters used lots of words with “isms” instead of referring to wise woodcutters and devious wolves.

When I crossed over to the other side of the library, I found the Adult Collection to the right of the circulation desk. Unleashing my natural window-seat affinity, I made a bee-line for a bay window that mirrored its equivalent on the south side. Then I nestled into the warm corner where the window bench met the wall, enjoying the afternoon sun on my left arm and shoulder. (I wanted to sing with John Denver, “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy”, but I didn’t). Adding to my contentment was the sight of a large pine tree and its fellow living beings in Lawrence Park and Ravine.

Turning my attention back inside, I liked how the sunny spaciousness felt like a continuation of the park view. My fellow readers seemed to share the peaceful spring mood. One young patron had propped a giant skateboard beside his armchair before settling down to work. Others were absorbed in the newspaper or their laptop screens.

Relinquishing my warm spot, I walked among the shelves to discover that ESL was solidly represented, but there wasn’t an extensive multilingual collection. At this branch, the largest one was the Children’s French Livres in the north wing. I couldn’t be disappointed for long though, especially when I spotted my third window seat of the day, totally delighting me. I enjoyed gazing out the bay window at Yonge Street and looking down at the shadows on the seat. Easily amused by objects in sunlight, I photographed Kaffe Fassett‘s Glorious Interiors resting between diamonds of light and shade.

I wanted to spend a lot more time on the window seat, but there was an appointment to keep, and the excuse “I was late because I was taking pictures of library books on a window seat” would not fly. Though short, I treasured my second visit to this calm centre of down-to-earth elegance at Yonge and Lawrence.

I can’t believe I’ve run out of Toronto Public Libraries to visit! On Tuesday, I attended Thorncliffe‘s re-opening ceremony and bagged my 99th branch into the bargain! With excited patrons, balloons, a man in a foam book suit, music, and dancers, I privately co-opted some jubilation for the end of my library quest.

I arrived at Thorncliffe Library at 12:45 pm, which was fifteen minutes before the opening. Luckily, I was near the front of the queue, which seemed to double every five minutes. By the time the doors opened at 1:05, the line had lengthened to almost a block! Veiled mothers with strollers, elderly gentlemen in suits, media representatives, white-haired ladies, and lively kids milled about agreeably.

When I took a moment to study the area surrounding the library, all I could see were high-rise apartment buildings in every direction. The somewhat claustrophobic view reminded me of a Toronto Star article about Thorncliffe that I’d saved back in January. According to Immigration Reporter Nicholas Keung, “More than 30,000 (Thorncliffe) residents — mostly newcomers — are crowded into 34 highrise and lowrise apartments in a 2.2-square kilomentre concrete jungle behind Don Mills Road and Don Valley Parkway” (“Crowded, Stresssed Thorncliffe” January 11, 2010).

No wonder the line was so long and the faces so expectant; the occupants of the pervasive high-rises had been without their local library for two and a half years. I imagined packed elevators pouring book-lovers onto Thorncliffe Park Drive this afternoon, all anxious to see a branch that was now twice the size it used to be.

The crowd pushed forward eagerly when two security guards opened the doors, and the interior of Thorncliffe proved itself worthy of both the wait and the 1.83 million dollar expenditure. After I was handed a sturdy blue TPL bag and got my hand shaken by Councillor John Parker (Ward 26, Don Valley West), I took in the whole 10,000 square feet of the library. The newness and energy of the space was tangible, and I was drawn to the large sound system that was animating two belly dancers in sparkly gear. Arms dipping and swooping, they were grooving in front of the east windows of the kid’s section that overlooked a central courtyard.

A few yards away from the dancers, the word “read” in giant three-dimensional letters was attached to the north wall. Each of the four lower-case letters had its own colour, creating an interactive word sculpture which was the centerpiece of Thorncliffe’s KidsStop, an incentive to promote pre-literacy skills. (Thorncliffe is the third TPL branch to have a KidsStop, after S. Walter Stewart and Dufferin/Saint Clair).

In the Toronto Star article mentioned above, Keung cited the statistic that “one quarter of Thorncliffe’s population is under 14.” With the improved children’s area, it made me happy to see that the kids of Thorncliffe would now be better served, with more books, more space, a giant Read to Your Bunny book attached to the wall, a set of pink and teal armchairs that roll on huge wheels, and some colourful low cushions that reminded me of Lucky Charms moons and stars.

Within minutes of the opening, children were playing on the r, e, a, and d structures and enjoying the literacy games that were built into these hands-on learning letters. Kids were spinning dials, examining wooden toggles on a slate, and checking out a counting wheel. One small patron lost no time in claiming a seat on the upward curve of the bottom half of the red letter a. What a great example of experiencing the alphabet kinesthetically! Mission accomplished, KidsStop!

Near the a-chair, a magician was showing a group of kids some card tricks at a low table. By this time, a large appreciative audience had formed a semi-circle around the tireless dancers. The crowd rested their elbows and handbags on bookshelves, clapped in time to the beat, and took pictures with their cell-phone cameras. The joy in the library was palpable, creating a celebratory atmosphere that truly did justice to such an uplifting event.

Still smiling at the happy scene, I moved to a slightly quieter part of the library. As I walked through the branch, I admired side displays of new books and DVD’s, a generous CD collection, and offerings in Hindi, Gujarati, and Urdu. The ESL section contained a lot of shiny new books, as did the Teen nook in the southeast corner of the building. A few steps away from the Teen’s L-shaped sofa and table was a separate Quiet Study Room. However, it wasn’t obliged to be quiet that afternoon because it was hosting a big spread of samosas and salad.

My last stop at my last branch was a comfortable perch on a black leather chair in the reading lounge. Sitting beside the bank of south-facing windows, I sorted out which treasures I was going to carry home in my new library bag and let the buzz of the opening settle around my shoulders. I felt a little sad when I realized that my 2006 library map would now have every branch highlighted. I’m going to miss the anticipation of discovering new libraries. Yes, I still have more work to do on the project, such as expanding earlier blog posts and checking out the bookmobiles, but I take comfort in the fact that I finished the task I started. May this blog be the wordiest thank you letter ever written to The Toronto Public Library!

Located on the first floor, west side, Gateway Services was devoted to TPL-card-carrying youth. It featured The Young Adult Collection, a computer Learning Centre, and The Hub (a teenager-friendly space for study and socializing). Within The Hub’s zone was a tall gazebo-like structure whose roof consisted of a pink circle crossed by parallel white boards. This gazebo sheltered a red-tiled wall in the shape of the letter “S” (mirroring the red wall on the first floor of the east side) and four jukeboxes.

Dominating the north wall of Gateway Services was a mural in chunky faux-graffiti font that spelled TORONTO PUBLIC LIBRARY. In my view, the mural also  spelled TRYING TOO HARD TO BE HIP IN ORDER TO “REACH” DISAFFECTED URBAN YOUTH.

Regardless of the patronizing mural, this lively floor did not lack for patrons or activity. I noticed two intense chess games in progress, even though the players hadn’t seen their teens for five decades. In The Hub, a young laptop user appeared permanently grafted to the red upholstered bench that was attached to the curving red wall. Another student slouched on the floor, his back supported by the interior wall. And a group of friends crowded round a low table, deep in conversation.

Four old-fashioned juke boxes stood near the curving red bench area under the gazebo. These Rock-ola Nostalgia beasts had carved wooden arms and a solid 1950′s presence. When I studied the song selections, I beheld artists like the following pairs: LeAnn Rimes and Prince, Luther Vandross and Amy Grant, Ozzy Osbourne and Elton John, The Beastie Boys and Simon and Garfunkel, R.E.M. and Reba McEntire, plus Janet Jackson and The Cranberries.

Footsore and saturated with jukebox details, I was relieved to discover that the second floor of the west side only had several meeting rooms, a large auditorium, and a kitchen. The floors above the meeting rooms contained offices that weren’t open to the general public.

Tired as I was, my enthusiasm for the library super-system known as North York Central did not quail. Before I embarked on my second exploration of this massive branch, I had no idea it boasted a music room, a Legal Aid office, a sound effects collection, a second-hand bookstore, and a galaxy mural on the 6th floor. With unexpected resources around every corner, North York Central is a colossal attraction for fans of the Toronto Public Library.

The Concourse Level housed a study hall, the Jean Orpwood Literacy Office, the Talking Books Mobile Outreach Service, and Book-Ends, the library’s amazing second-hand bookstore. I didn’t go into the bookstore or any of the offices, but I did take some time to wander around the study hall. This room occupied the majority of the space, with accommodation for five extra-long tables. Almost every chair was taken, and I liked how each student had created a miniature encampment in order to maintain personal space in a crowded area. Carefully arranging their possessions to mark their table territory, they had piled up laptops, highlighter pens, bags of crisps, water bottles, reference books marked with fluttering sticky tabs, calculators, hefty textbooks, Starbucks cups, take-out boxes, binders, and bottles of skin-cream. Nobody would dare breach the ramparts of these studious forts!

More tables lined the tall windows on the south side of the study hall. Separated by six-foot high dividers, these tables afforded a view of Mel Lastman Square at pool level. Individual study carrels and a few potted trees capped off the room’s amenities.

After exiting the east side of North York Central from the first level, I stood in the liminal space of the cavernous atrium. When I looked up, I saw a giant calligraphy mural on the north wall over the main entrance from the mall. Three horizontal rows of five characters each repeated the letters and characters in different patterns. I only recognized a couple of the scripts (Persian and Chinese), but the meaning remained mysterious. Was the mural imparting a grand philosophical thought or reminding us to return our library books by the due date?

As I gazed at floors one to six in their entirety, I was struck by the layered complexity of the floors with their circular look-out nodules in the northwest corners, all stacked on top of each other and connected by a thick red column. From my main floor viewpoint, I could also see the carpeted sides of the many staircases, all in a pinkish oatmeal colour. When I had been on the sixth floor looking down, the whole interior structure had reminded me of a pin-ball machine. But when I looked up, the effect was more serious and grand.

Having visited the entire east side and the atrium, the only remaining section was the library’s Gateway Services on the west side.

The circulation area on the first floor serves as the primary point of entry and exit for the east side of North York Central Library. When I first came in, the sheer intensity of activity was overwhelming. Long lines of borrowers resembled busy supermarket queues, and library staff were doing their best to hustle through the check-out process. At least there were no price checks!

The restless pace of book borrowing was rendered more frenetic by the overstimulating decor. Bright colours and geometric shapes competed with the press of people and objects, leaving the eye with few places to rest. However, one structure provided a clear visual boundary in a disorienting space. It was a waist-high wall in red tiles. Shaped like a letter “s” that just kept on curving, the wall demarcated where the browsery ended and the Children’s Section began. Continuing the curve where the wall stopped was a red bookcase that also managed to undulate.

Behind the red wall was a yellow castle tower with green eaves and a semi-open roof made of green boards arranged in a radial pattern. A gold ball capped the centre of the castle roof, which was approximately eight feet high.

On the floor near the entrance to the story-castle was a stone sculpture titled “Mother Bear and Cub” by E. B. Ox. This small but solid art object had inspired many young expressive artists, judging by the wild streaks of green, red, burgundy, pink, and turquoise crayon that decorated the stone bears. In my view, the colourful dialogue between artist and viewers proved the sculpture’s appeal and added to its stature.

When I went to look inside the castle, I was delighted to discover four aquariums on shelves. These fish tanks had been placed at mid-level on the castle wall, and underneath the shelves were two reading cupboards without doors. With cushions at floor level, the cubby-holes were the perfect size for a parent and child to crawl into and share a story. At the back of the reading nooks were wooden bars that created a non-threatening dungeon effect. Who knew dungeons could be fun?

The fanciful tower wasn’t the only story venue at North York Central’s Children’s Section; it also boasted a separate story-room. On the day I visited, the room was packed with youngsters and their caregivers listening to a very animated educator. After she finished her story, she led the audience in a rousing rendition of “I’m a Little Teapot.”

On the east wall near the story-room was a striking piece of art carved in the shape of an abstract tree with branches that arched up and out. The sculpture’s branches and leaves contained a vast range of figures from fairy-tales, myths, First Nations culture, and the animal kingdom. It took me at least ten minutes to absorb all the images, for they were packed together in close proximity. Inhabiting the tree were bears, a snowman, a dinosaur, a gingerbread man, a jester, a totem pole, a Viking ship, Pan, a snake wearing a hat, Hercules, a canoe, a peacock, Pegasus, a frog king, and a woodcutter (among others).

If I wanted to learn more about frog kings or gingerbread men, I could step right over to the impressive Children’s Literature Reference Section, a category which I hadn’t seen in any other TPL branch (although Lillian H. Smith branch has a Children’s Literature Resource Collection). Equally impressive was a large collection of children’s books in French, German, Hindi, Chinese, Korean, and Russian. A smaller number of materials was available in Arabic, Persian, Serbian, Japanese, and Spanish.

The final feature of interest on the first floor was the Kid’s Help Desk, which managed to combine the whimsical with the informative. The curved desk was framed by claw-shaped side columns topped by teddy bears. A toy moose head loomed directly behind the librarians’ heads. Presumably, the moose was the final authority on all book-related matters.

Having no questions for the moose or his librarian attendants, I headed down to the Concourse Level.