Breakfast in Scarborough

The restful reading space in the side nodule by the red column was the first feature to capture my attention on the fifth floor. I especially liked the low spool-shaped coffee tables in this reading area, for they would make great surfaces for squat teapots if tea parties were allowed in the library. The whimsical stools contrasted with the sober study booths that lined the north wall. All four booths were inhabited by scholars absorbed in their work.

As I walked around the rest of this floor, I began to appreciate the eclectic range of topics that came under the umbrella of Science and Technology. Its magazine collection had everything from Tropical Fish Hobbyist to Spaceflight and Weightwatchers. Interested readers could also open books about quantum mechanics, spotted owls and boatbuilding, all without leaving the room. A Legal Aid Clinic awaited clients in the southwest corner, and on a lighter note, a nearby open cabinet contained a CD collection of sound effects. To jazz up patrons’ answering machines, they could choose from the following noises: bullfrog croak, lion roar, echo canyon, sexy laugh, and a “right to remain silent” admonition. For the theatre-lovers, there were steam railway sound effects, terror/mystery noises, and rainshowers.

The last notable item on the fifth level of North York Central Library was a “Beauty and Style” display. In this tall glass cabinet, a variety of beauty aids surrounded relevant photocopied book covers propped on stands. An old-fashioned perfume atomizer with a pink tassel rested on the middle shelf near a gold chain, a plain hairdryer, a mousse bottle, and a bottle of Fendi Eau de Toilette. I’m not sure what the serious science and technology students at nearby tables made of this display, but I did notice that nobody was leaping up to join me as a fellow spectator.

Leaving the objects of beauty and style for the day, I headed downstairs to Business and Urban Affairs.

In its immensity and comprehensiveness, North York Central Library (1987) was a universe unto itself. Located in the mall next to Mel Lastman Square, I was blown away by the sheer size, complexity, and scope of this branch. In fact, I felt so overwhelmed by the task of adequately describing all 168,022 square feet of it, I decided write one post per floor, beginning with the sixth floor and working my way down.

The top floor, also known as the Gladys Allison Canadiana Room, was smaller than the preceding levels, creating an aeyrie-like effect. I leaned against a waist-high carpeted wall overlooking the atrium below and studied a sky mural on the west wall at eye-level. The mural’s sky was very Northern, pressing close to mountains of ice. A wooden disk with a carved maple leaf echoed the Canadiana theme.

The lofty Canadiana Room seemed to represent the firmament of North York Central, but the sky mural wasn’t its absolute limit. Painted above eye-level was a milky-purple galaxy alive with stars. I caught my breath when I casually looked up, for I hadn’t been expecting to see anything more infinite than the sky! My excitability was also heightened by the minor vertigo I was experiencing from my bird’s-eye perch. It made me appreciate how solidity of the structure I was leaning against checked the sense of floating in the wide openness of the atrium.

Dividing North York Central branch into its east and west sides, the central atrium was like a canyon. From my east-side perspective in the Canadiana room, I could see over the atrium and the open staircases on both sides. From so high up, the vastness of this urban beehive of information and human endeavor was tangible. Reduced-sized patrons scurried about their scholarly business on multiple floors. A lone man worked at his laptop in the side observation tower of the fourth floor. And on the first floor of the west side, a round table with radial dividers looked like a package of cheese wedges with miniature readers in attendance.

As I gazed further, the scene below began to bear resemblance to a massive 1980’s pinball machine. For example, the round observation circles at the edges of the east floors looked like a series of obstacles for a pinball to ricochet around. A thick red column vertically intersected all the circles from the fifth to the first floors, reinforcing the pinball effect. Even the staircase on the west side resembled a chute with a round basin at the end (rather like those old-fashioned cash registers that spit out change into a shallow bowl). The library could also be described as a giant charity coin contraption like you see in Dairy Queen or Blockbuster. You drop in a donated quarter and watch it spin its way down a complicated series of chutes, drops, and channels.

When I started to wonder if any mountaineers had ever rappelled from the fifth floor to the lobby, I figured it was time to get moving. I stepped away from the hypnotic view and walked around the darkened microfilm room on the north side of the sixth floor, where the low lighting suited the pursuit of past mysteries. This research area featured glossy scanners next to large black computer screens. Genealogical microfilms and old newspapers waited patiently in cabinets.

The remaining section of this floor received extra light from the south-facing windows that overlooked Mel Lastman Square’s central pool far below. On a nearby wall was a portrait of Gladys Allison (1901-1979), who served on the North York Library Board from 1951 to 1967. Artist Mayc Setchell depicted a sympathetic bespectacled woman with short silver hair set in gentle waves. A seated Gladys and her manual typewriter were positioned in front of bookshelves which filled the entire background of the canvas. The majority of the books’ spines were blank, but Setchell chose to provide some titles, including Tomorrow Will Be Better, Lorna Doon, Miracle of the Breakfast Table, Short History of the English People, and The Works of Shakespeare.

Not far from Gladys’ painting was a life-size gilded oak lion with a pompadour mane and slightly protruding eyes. According to the display information, The Golden Lion of North York, was made by Paul Sheppard, and it used to stand guard over the entrance to a nineteenth-century hotel near Sheppard and Yonge (naturally enough, The Golden Lion Hotel).

Paying my respects to the lion and the North York History Collection, I stepped into the elevator and pressed 5, Science and Technology.

The penultimate Toronto Public Library I called on was one of its smallest: Swansea Memorial. This compact and attractive branch occupies one room on the upper floor of Swansea’s City Hall, where it has resided for fifty-one years. (Previously, it was located in Swansea Public School from 1919 to 1959). With only 1,127 square feet of floor space, what Swansea Memorial lacked in elbow room was compensated by historical flavour. Even its big wooden table had a history. It was made in 1926 by one S. Haslam, carpenter.

I liked the pioneering feel to this venerable library; it evoked the one-room schoolhouses I read about in Little House on the Prairie and Anne of Green Gables. (By the way, L. M. Montgomery actually lived in the village of Swansea from 1935 until her death in 1942, as Mary Henley Rubio details in Lucy Maud Montgomery: The Gift of Wings (446)).

In contrast to the solid, sober table was the tie-dyed kite on the ceiling. This piece of hippy whimsy might have been an attempt to soften the military associations of the library’s name. From a leaflet about Swansea Memorial Library’s history, I learned that credit for its creation belongs to the Women’s Patriotic League of Swansea, who wanted to honour the freshly-returned veterans of the First World War as well as the soldiers who had not survived.

My last act of homage was to study the folksy mural on the outer wall of the library. I loved the lively colours and the way the art piece transformed the interior of an official municipal building into a friendly community space. What an appropriate spot to contemplate my next-to-last TPL branch!

To enter Jane/Dundas Library from the parking lot is to encounter the branch as a visual whole — silver, light, and open. Look down and you can see groups of teens in their study nook below. Look to the right and the entire main level comes into view. Although Jane/Dundas isn’t a huge branch, such is the innovative use of space that it feels bigger than its 11,648 square feet.

A long carpeted ramp leads to the basement level, giving a sense of expansiveness. Further unfolding the feeling of openness is the generous amount of free space overhead as well as the enormous west-facing window.

The library’s spatial openness is matched by linguistic breadth, as evidenced by a large ESL section and materials in French, Chinese, Hindi, Polish, Spanish, and Vietnamese. The narrow aisles of the main level also yield substantial fiction and non-fiction collections.

The downstairs level is equally engaging. It has a quiet study room filled with lovely Saturday self-improvement energy, a beautiful tree in the teen enclave, and a playful set of shelves in the children’s area. These wooden shelves contain an open square which allows young library-users to peer into a storybook-reading zone.

With so many angles, corners, and views, Jane/Dundas is a delightful place to raise your head from a book before burrowing back into study. I’m grateful I got to spend a Saturday afternoon immersed in such an imaginative space!

Finding a parking space on Bloor Street West near Royal York Road was challenging, but my luck changed for the better when I walked into Brentwood Library. By coincidence, that particular Saturday in December just happened to be Christmas Open House day! With an angel-topped tree, carols playing in the background, and cinnamon smells announcing the presence of hot apple cider, Brentwood created a truly festive welcome for its patrons. Transcending a tired attempt to go through the holiday motions, the Open House struck me as genuinely hospitable, especially when one of the librarians stationed herself behind the cookie table to serve the cider personally. Complementing the classic Christmas scene was the 1950’s atmosphere of the branch, which the clock above the hearth exemplified.

Lest this solid 1955 building seem too stodgy, its sunny attic provided a welcome touch of lightness. A very calming, open space, it was the perfect home for the children’s collection. I spent several minutes just enjoying the attic before I walked back downstairs and then down one flight more. As I approached the basement level, several murals painted on the stairway walls caught my eye. The bright colours provided a visual transition into the cozy room which housed the teen section as well as the Polish and French offerings. Selecting a French film and a quilt book, I returned to the cinnamon cheer of the main level for check-out.

I’m reporting live from the south room of Runnymede’s upper story, which doubles as a study area and art gallery. For me, this attic has the right combination of austerity and artistic flair, putting it on a par with Gerrard/Ashdale branch. A simple hearth lies a few yards in front of me under the sloping roof. Above the carved wooden mantle is a quilted runner which celebrates the fact that Runnymede Library was featured on a postage stamp in 1989. An image of the grey stone building is sewn in centre of the runner, and framing the central panels are the famous totem poles which flank the library’s actual entrance.

I’ve just left the gallery to descend to the main level. I like how the wall separating the flights of stairs contains square windows with amber glass; they give people the opportunity to make funny faces at each other as they come and go between floors. Now I’m perched on a low wooden bench that fronts a very tall window with dignified dark-brown window-frames. The frames really suit this part of the library, which has high built-in bookshelves that would look right at home in Mr. Rochester’s study (or any other brooding aristocrat’s den). And the imaginary study need not be limited to England, for books at Runnymede are available in Ukrainian, German, Polish, French, and Russian.

Following the row of shelves with foreign-language resources to the end (which culminates in large art volumes), I’ve now reached the south wall. Mostly glass, it offers a view of a square piece of lawn and a collection of respectable yet approachable houses. On the far side of this wall is an enormous floor-to-ceiling piece of copper with nine square windows cut out of it. Near the base of  this structure is a long sturdy window seat, perfect for leaning against the copper while looking out a small window. (Fingerprints on the glass testify to moments of inattention and day-dreaming).

The Children’s section is mostly along the east wall, which has been painted an intense shade of green that suggests Kermit the Frog’s pelt after an exfoliating treatment. On the part of the wall where the staff’s office is partitioned from the kid’s area, four portholes indicate submarine playfulness or surveillance. I don’t see any librarians peering through them disapprovingly, although some might object to a young couple who appear fused together in a studious love-heap. The affectionate pair are huddled on a bench which backs up against the Teen Section’s wide computer table. (In this context, the high portholes in the library remind me of a picture I’d once seen of a 19th-century parlour which had a tiny window above the door for parents standing on chairs in the adjacent room to monitor courting couples).

Shaking off old-fashioned images of spying librarians, I return to the gallery to see if the meeting room across the hall is empty. I find it unoccupied and enjoy a few minutes sitting in the north side of the upper level. Under the eaves, a piano and puppet theatre wait for the next entertaining event at the library. Three lovely dormer windows show bare trees and a dark blue afternoon sky. I feel peaceful here.

When I found Perth/Dupont Library after some pleasantly aimless walking, I was struck by how architectually-integrated the branch seemed, as if it had been lovingly tucked into its storefront room by the surrounding community. About the size of Davenport Library, Perth/Dupont’s interior was off-white with olive trim and featured an exposed blue-purple heating duct that snaked around three walls. In the southeast corner, a blue alligator kept watch from a platform above a square column built into the wall. And on a matching platform in the southwest corner, two white teddy bears with red-ribbon bow-ties served as guardians of their domain. Near the centre of the south wall was a heavy hanging wooden frame that supported a large dragon face. This was a very toothy specimen indeed, and its protruding tongue amped up the scare-factor.

Not intimidated by the dragon, I sat at a table between the Portuguese collection and the checkout desk for a few hours, soaking up a typical weekday afternoon at a branch which appeared to be a second home to the families who brought their kids to read and play. When most patrons came in, especially the smallest ones, the librarian greeted them by name. What’s more, she engaged in relaxed conversations with the parents and didn’t become overly officious when a few rambunctious kids crawled inside the paper-back display frames. When the game of chase got wild, mindful moms said, “Remember we were going to practice our inside voices? This is a library, not a playground.”

Even though Perth/Dupont is not technically a playground, I liked how the kids showed a natural sense of ownership; they knew it was their library even if, in their exuberance, they might have made themselves a little too much at home. What better testimony to Perth/Dupont’s genuine welcome to local families and individuals!

When I studied the TPL map before I set out for Davenport Library, I wrongly assumed that Shaw Street went up as far north as Saint Clair Avenue West. For this reason, my decision to take the streetcar west from Saint Clair West Station was ill-advised. By the time I heard the automated voice announce Dufferin Street, I knew I’d probably gone too far.

Deciding to try my luck on foot, I hopped off the streetcar into the rain, walked down Dufferin to Davenport Road and then proceeded east on a prayer that Shaw would appear soon. I was getting tired and cold, so when I saw the small warm building on the corner of quietly residential Davenport and Shaw, my spirits lifted. On that dark afternoon, the library’s lights and Christmas wreath looked especially welcoming to this sojourner. And I valued reaching Davenport all the more because of the difficulty.

The door made a chunky clink when I opened it, but none of the three patrons inside looked up. Glad to rest my feet, I sat down at a table and let the pale lime walls of the narrow room soothe me. The floor’s blue and green tiles were attractive, and I liked the way the shelving had been adapted to a space that called to mind a New York railroad apartment. Davenport’s tall shelves lined the west wall, each a three-sided entity unto itself; a book-seeker could lose herself in the contemplation of titles in front of her and on either side.

Although it took only a few minutes to cover the library’s 3,604 square feet, I lingered for more than an hour at a table in the northwest corner marking papers. I felt the gratitude of a traveller who has found shelter after being cold and lost. How lucky I was to spend a rainy afternoon in this secluded box car of a branch!

From the outside, Rexdale Library had a pleasing squatness that gave it the air of small-town post-office. Confirming this impression, a historical outline posted inside described the evolution of the library and its formerly rural surroundings. I was especially fascinated by a newspaper clipping which showed how Kipling Heights looked in 1955.

Though not as empty as the field in the photograph, Rexdale wasn’t very crowded on the afternoon of my visit. Near the west wall, a couple of elderly men fondly reminisced about TTC fares that only cost six cents in the post-war era. A few shelves away from their table were books in languages which probably weren’t heard very often in Kipling Heights fifty years ago: Gujarati, Punjabi, and Spanish (with the exception of Italian, which was more common).

Having come into the building from the back entrance, I decided to investigate the front vestibule facing Kipling Avenue, which was like a sunny wooden box. Further along the north wall was a bay window with a lovely C-shaped window seat. Brightening the window were pictures of Winnie the Pooh, The Simpsons, and Dora the Explorer (among others). Opposite the windows, a wooden sliding screen completed the circle started by the window seat. Its flexibility made it possible to enclose the area into its own separate space. Emphasizing the room’s singularity, a circular depression in the middle suggested a woodland pond. Two carpeted steps led to the sacred pool, providing the perfect amount of transition time from land to water. With late afternoon sunlight flooding the window-seat theatre, this otherwise ordinary branch was transformed into a cartoon-friendly hermitage.

Woodview Park Library is part of a modest strip plaza near the intersection of Sheppard Avenue and Weston Road. Despite its name, there were no views of woods or parks on offer. What’s more, I found this branch to be one of the more spartan TPL establishments I’ve visited; the large square room seemed almost too big for its contents. A few patrons rattled around the main area, but the most lively part of the library was a separate Quiet Study Area where a family crafts activity was in progress.

The decorations were sparse as well, mainly consisting of some painted Greek arches festooned with leaves and dark purple grapes. In the Children’s Area, the east wall featured the very same wooden cut-outs in the shape of joyful kids that Black Creek Library has. Nevertheless, the minimalist approach to decoration didn’t extend to the number of books on display. There were plenty of ESL, Italian, Spanish, and Vietnamese resources as well as volumes in the language of Romance. Two titles I liked were Cattle Baron: Nanny Needed and Hired: Cinderella Chef. Who knew want ads could make household chores sound so alluring?

My visit to Humber Summit (1974) was a flying one, as Stewart and I arrived less than an hour before closing. A small branch placed on top of a gentle hill, Humber Summit’s interior successfully imitated a living room. I was drawn to four fat armchairs positioned around a coffee table, but there wasn’t time to luxuriate in one, much less try out all four, Goldilocks-style. Not far away, a small group of youngsters on a red sofa watched the 2007 version of Hairspray, further enhancing the domestic atmosphere.

While Tracy Turnblad danced her way to personal victory and civil rights activism, I studied multilingual shelves which offered materials in Urdu, Spanish, Italian, Hindi, Gujarati, and Punjabi. I sensed that the librarians were getting antsy to close, so I dashed downstairs for a quick look. The rooms were locked, but I discovered an auditorium, a couple of meeting rooms, a homework club, and a Leading-to-Reading office. I liked how there was a choice of two different staircases to take you back up to the main level; one led to the northwest corner of the library and the other to the outer lobby. Must be great for games of chase or escaping homework club!

Stewart caught sight of me when I re-emerged from the lobby and motioned me over to the check-out desk. Minutes before closing, we made a hasty exit so we wouldn’t further delay the staff. Stewart took a few pictures of the library’s exterior while I admired the business names across the street: Om Cash Bank, Bollywood Lollywood DVD’s, Empanadas, and Asafo Market. I was pleased to take in Islington Avenue at sunset on the mild slopes of Humber Summit.

Located near the intersection of Albion Road and Kipling Avenue, Albion Library’s gritty branch-on-the-edge vibe reminded me of Eatonville Library, which also presses against the outer limits of the Greater Toronto Area. Eatonville was built in 1967 and Albion in 1973: two survivors of groovier times.

True to the non-conformist decade which produced it, Albion’s dark green and red-orange interior showed a refreshing disregard for pastel niceties. Also in line with a truth-seeking era, the large exposed heating and cooling ducts overhead did not pretend to be respectable. Thirty six years ago, a barefoot patron might have felt comfortable reading a copy of Be Here Now under such non-hypocritical ducts.

Fully shod but sympathetic, I explored the sprawling single-level building, an ecojot notebook with doves on the cover in my hand. When I wasn’t distracted by artistic patches of sunlight on the carpet, I was marvelling at the amazing range of materials in Arabic, Bengali, Chinese, French, Gujarati, Hindi, Italian, Punjabi, Spanish, Tamil, Urdu, and Vietnamese. I also admired a glass cube in the middle of the north wing which displayed a busy computer lab and a small stage with carpeted tiers for storytellers in the south wing.

After buying a few books from the sale trolley, I left Albion feeling cooler than when I came in. And that’s coming from a super hip person who blogs about libraries!

Occupying a position in the far northwest corner of the Toronto Public Library map, Humberwood branch lies forty-three kilometres from our home in Scarborough. Like Alderwood Library far to the south, Humberwood shares accommodations with a community centre and a school. These branches serve double-duty as school and public libraries.

Although the grounds of the community centre bordered a cluster of suburban houses, a rural atmosphere prevailed thanks to tall grass trails behind the complex and a “natural regeneration area” that ringed the building, softening any blunt angles. Because of my prairie upbringing in Missouri, I have a natural tendency to swoon over wild grasses, the taller the better. I also like my grasses as frondy as possible, for tassels and tufts catch the wind more easily. That’s why I wanted to jump up and down when I saw a so many luscious grasses heaped up in front of the library’s entrance. Increasing my delight, a curved footbridge led to the front door, providing a sense of passing through a wild field.

Humberwood’s interior also felt very welcoming and open, especially when I caught sight of an inspired window seat — one long semi-circular swoop of light and wood. Enchanted, I immediately went to sit on it and soak up the natural view from the inside. While I admired some cottony tufts, I felt sun-warmed and content, like a napping cat.

A few paces from the wonderful seat was a rope hammock hanging from the ceiling. Jammed together in a cuddly heap were two stuffed gorillas in Santa hats and some class of bird tucked under one of the primate’s arms. Closer to the ground, resources in Hindi, Gujurati, Chinese, and Punjabi were located a few bookshelves away from the hammock residents.

A large paper tree and attendant paper dinosaurs — all holding prehistoric court on top of a sturdy bookshelf — announced the presence of the Children’s area. What tickled me about this section was the collection of zany Barbie dolls and action figures which dangled from the ceiling on fishing lines. One macho doll commandeered a motorcycle while a Barbie in a safari suit clutched his waist from behind. A few ceiling tiles over, a plastic man in a gas mask was parachuting towards some picture books. Nearby, a female and two male Barbies formed an aerial karate trio while more decorative (but less dynamic) dolls modeled nightclub outfits and a swimsuit. The central ceiling-piece was a large black helicopter complete with a rugged pilot, a female passenger in impractical gold boots, and a Rocky-impersonator hanging from one of the runners. Clinging to the wall was a rock-climbing Ken doll, his hands and feet scotch-taped to the indoor cliff. Although I worried about the stereotypical gender roles this display might be reinforcing, I couldn’t help but smile at the playful gaggle of dangling Barbies.

Below the Barbies, a collection of stuffed animals had been placed in a friendly pile where two shelves formed a corner on the west wall. A large stuffed Teddy-bear held a blue Wuvluvs alien on his lap. And closer to the ground, a painted wooden clown’s body stood upright, waiting for a photogenic face to fill the empty circle. Although I didn’t pose for a clown photograph, I had a wonderful time in this spacious one-room library on the northwest frontier of the Toronto city line. Humberwood Library, a delightful surprise amid tall grasses, is now on my list of favourite branches.

To enter Oakwood Village Library (1997) was to step into a pale concrete rectangle. I found the interior colours very calming, especially the mottled blue and grey accent walls (as seen below). A balm to thirsty eyes, this spacious branch was a cool drink of water.

Even though Oakwood Village’s straight lines and concrete stairs reminded me of a university library, the lively clientele didn’t allow much academic dust to settle. In fact, a joyfully chaotic face-painting event had just broken up when I turned up to see the library. Phalanxes of strollers streamed toward the exit, only slowed by the odd recalcitrant toddler in the collector lane. Wide aisles prevented any major traffic jams.

On the east side of the room, an empty expanse of carpeted floor waited for the next seated storytelling audience. This open area’s only decorations were a gas fireplace and an exhibit of three art pieces by Barbara Reid. My favourite one presented a mother reading an orange book with the sun on its cover to a baby in a yellow jumpsuit. I loved how the plasticine managed to glow with domestic light.

The upper floor also had a very roomy east side, although it appeared slightly less spacious because of the armchairs for newspaper-browsers. Actually, the second floor was almost exactly the same size and shape as the main level, except for a narrow open space on its north side. I looked down the gap as I leaned against the ledge, catching a glimpse of bookish activity below.

Near the ledge were a couple of wide black chairs whose high backs contained large uniform holes. Since these leather chairs furnished the Teen Section, it wasn’t surprising that I saw two actual teens interacting with them. One kid remained seated while a friend pretended to punch his head through the holes. Clearly, this was not a love-seat. I moved away from the edifying scene to gaze at shelves filled with books in French, Tagalog, Portuguese, Spanish, and Italian.

With only one floor unvisited, I trotted down to the basement to see the theatre. The door was locked, so I returned to the main level and studied a Halloween book display in three glass cases near the exit. Magic, vampires, witches, Harry Potter, and spooky craft ideas dominated the titles, including Pure Dead Batty. I feel that way sometimes, especially when I realize I’ve visited eighty-seven Toronto Public Libraries!

Before I even stepped inside its doors, Gerrard/Ashdale Library’s unique flair displayed itself on the sides of a concrete platform rising from the sidewalk. On this street canvas, an artist had painted The Taj Mahal, an elephant, a lotus flower, a woman, and a peacock. These lively images in the foreground provided a contrast to the classical building in the background, which embodied the solid assurance of a structure which has presided on this corner since 1924.

When I first visited Gerrard/Ashdale a few years back, the upper story’s wooden beams and fireplace made a big impression on me. Thankfully, my second trip to the second floor didn’t disappoint. With five strong wooden braces and an inviting hearth, this large open room looked more like a fabulous attic in a C.S. Lewis book than an ordinary library wing. Enhancing the magic, a large textile art piece that sparkled with tiny mirrors hung from a brass rod above the mantle. On nearby shelves were resources in Urdu, Hindi, Gujurati, Bengali, and Chinese.

The south wing of the attic housed the Children’s Section. I liked how the ceiling sloped at an angle towards the windows facing Gerrard Street, creating a garret atmosphere where a poet or a child could feel at home. A wooden puppet theatre was tucked under the low eave, and a chess game on the large table nearby waited for its players to return. I admired two skylights above and then sat down beside a round window which comprised most of the east wall. A butterfly mobile inches from my forehead, I gazed at Kohinoor Foods across Ashdale Street, where commerce spilled onto the pavement in the form of green milk crates stacked with purple and yellow onions, grapes, and string beans.

Amesbury Park (1967) rested in front of a grassy mound of parkland on the south side of Lawrence Avenue West. Its interior had the care-worn look of a neighbourhood facility in high demand, as exemplified by a red bench with stuffing bursting out of large tears in its upholstery. This hapless seat was situated on the other side of a curved purple screen which marked the dividing line between the lobby and the Children’s area.

Someone had carved an open porthole in the wave-shaped divider, inviting patrons to imagine a submarine universe. Walls in dark blue, yellow, and olive green supported the underwater theme, for these colours would wave and blend together nicely beneath the sea. Illuminating our marine garden were two triangular skylights and five large windows that faced the park’s footpath.

As the photographs above demonstrate, triangle shapes abounded in this purposeful yet relaxed parkside branch. However, lest I completely float off in a reverie of sunlight and triangles, let me mention the large ESL section and offerings in French, Gujarati, Hindi, Italian, Spanish, Tamil, and Vietnamese. Two trolleys of withdrawn library books for sale attracted lots of interest, and every table hosted learners absorbed in their studies.

When I crouched down to examine the spine of a romance novel called Armed and Devastating, the lights went off for a few moments, signaling the library’s imminent closure. I enjoyed the brief bath of natural light — silver and blue on a late autumn afternoon — and reluctantly gathered up my notebook and book sale items. I left Amesbury Park, my eighty-sixth branch, with the sense of an afternoon well-spent.

Disguised in an unassuming beige box, Northern Elms Library (2005) proved to be an oasis in a concrete desert. Although strip-malls along Kipling and Rexdale compassed it round, this small branch offered quiet and pure sunlight to its urban patrons.

From a black cushioned bench in front of the east window, I absorbed solar energy while I admired Northern Elms’ compactness. Moderately busy on an October Saturday, the library’s entire holdings fit into one room. Dark orange, creamy yellow, and pale green covered the walls, and the floor tiles echoed these colours in both swirly and linear patterns. Composed almost entirely of glass, the south wall easily delivered light for the entire outfit.

Hovering from the ceiling in the Children’s section was a circular structure that looked like a UFO mothership. However, it differed from commonplace spaceships in that it was tricked out with four dainty hanging lamps. Closer to the ground, a yellow table top in the shape of a fried egg was joined by a red chair with a heart-shaped back, a yellow one with a flower back, and a green smiley-face chair. This corner of the library wasn’t just about the cheery furniture, though. Gravitas was added by mysterious images of spiral galaxies and nebulas on a nearby bulletin board.

Don’t let Northern Elms’ small size fool you. Its cosmic reach transcends gas stations, pharmacies, and parking lots.

From my seat at a wooden table in the north wing of Dufferin/St. Clair Library, I can see books in Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish on the shelves to the right. On my left, four square columns in grooved wood separate me from the large central hall, location of the famous Reid and MCarthy mural (1925-32).

Confined to a painted arch, the panel entitled “Community” is most visible from my perspective. In this tableau, robed figures recline on boulders and lean against trees. Their receptive poses seem ideal for absorbing wisdom from their spiritual leader, a tall man with a beige jacket draped over his shoulders. His slack sleeves flap as he stands with a book in his hands. The volume must be overly educational, as the audience’s faces are not very animated. (Possibly they are wondering why a couple of heating grates rest on a man’s head and cut into the trunk of seemingly solid tree.)

Despite the leader’s poor book-choice, the mural’s pleasing greens and browns draw me into the next room to take a closer look at the entire piece. The mural’s panels cover the four walls of the original main room of Earl’s Court Library (opened in 1921), presenting a total of ten arches that frame different scenes: Community, Nature Study (seekers draped on large stones that ring a delicious pool of water), The Story Hour,  The Family (starring a mother loaded down with a huge book on her lap), Philosophy (scholars included), and forest scenes with square windows gleaming between tree trunks.

In the four corners of the room, torches with scrolls wrapped around their bases fill the spaces between the panels’ arches. The scrolls bear the names of Tennyson, Carlyle, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens, Scott, Kipling, and Barrie. And on the north and south walls, the spandrels contain blank open books with quill pens placed diagonally across them. More torches appear, this time with scrolls inscribed with Science, Art, History, Biography, Romance, Adventure, Religion, and Philosophy.

On the whole, I like the mural’s classical yet down-home sensibility, and I’m very glad the library decided to restore it. The only thing that confuses me is the time-period the figures’ clothing is meant to represent. Some of the outfits are evolving towards togas and others are generic shapeless garments suitable for all manner of flouncing. Are the mural inhabitants ancient Greeks or mythical Canadians reading literature in the bush?

Turning my attention from the mural’s mysteries, I find the Teen’s Section in a corner room off the main hall behind the checkout desk. Two benches which meet at a right angle compose a study nook, complete with table. There’s also a row of computers, a listening station equipped with headphones, and a nearby window bench.

Moving to the south wing, the Children’s area is equally well-appointed, with wide, high windows, comfortable benches, and bright walls in lime green and dark purple. Even the bookshelves manage to be cheerful and fun; circular mirrors attached to their sides allow very young children to enjoy their reflections. Thanks to some blue-tack, a plastic beetle sticks to another shelf, and overhead an amiable wooden dragon offers his tail as a frame for a “KidsStop” sign. The majority of the dragon’s body lies flush against the wall, but its tail juts out into space, effectively folding the creature in half.

Below the wall-dragon is a magical entryway made of crossed wooden arches resembling a cathedral vault. Passing under the arches leads to the KidsStop playroom which boasts a wooden puppet theatre and a large wooden dragon in the centre. On the dragon’s flanks hang magnetic letters, a colour wheel, a spin-a-story game, and a lever to press for the song “Heads, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.” Against two walls, a low wrap-around bench stores books underneath its seat, and a giant book called Read to Your Bunny is attached to another wall for a stand-and-read experience. Just above floor level opposite the arched entryway is a shadow box framed by a wavy red border. The box contains a phone devoted to “Dial-a-Story”, an inventive library program in which kids can listen to stories in a variety of languages.

Not to be outdone by the main hall, the playroom (formerly called the Children’s Clubroom) has its own recently restored mural, painted by Doris McCarthy in 1932. Doing her part to illustrate the mural’s fairy-tale theme, Cinderella dominates the west wall. In her loose-fitting gown, she looks like an floaty flapper, more apt to waltz than do the Charleston. The prince is handsome but his crown has alarming gold nodules on its tips. The south wall belongs to Jack the Giant Killer. In this section, Jack’s mother is trying to talk him out of climbing the stalk, even though the giant doesn’t look overly intimidating in slippers with ties that crisscross his calves.

Hansel and Gretel, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and Puss-n-Boots occupy the east wall, where a candy cane chimney and Mama Bear’s apron stand out as especially fine details. The north wall is devoted to Little Red Riding Hood. In this panel, the wolf looks outrageously comfy in his “borrowed” pink nightgown and cap. Finally, an imaginative system of borders unifies the entire composition in the natural world; the top border contains rows of owls with leafy vines separating each bird while the side borders feature squirrels instead.

My eyes filled with fairy-tales, I return to the main part of the south wing, noting a Preschool Lounge with a long window bench, computers, and circular tables with fun wavy plastic chairs. My final stop is in the Earl’s Court Room, a combination study hall, community meeting room, and local history repository. As I study old photographs of Earl’s Court, I reflect on what I like so much about this historic yet vibrant branch: the dark wood of the shelves, the braided green of the central mural’s borders, the bright red of the shadow-box phone, and the gold of the prince’s silly crown.

I was delighted to meet Vit Wagner, Publishing Reporter for the Toronto Star this afternoon. We spent half an hour at a café talking about my quest to visit and write about all 99 Toronto Public Libraries. Afterwards, there was even a photo session in front of Saint James Town Library, courtesy of Star Photographer, Tara Walton. I think I am now no longer allowed to wail to my husband, “Nobody reads my blog!”

Update: and here it is – Burning through the branches.

Dignified Bloor/Gladstone Library was recently re-opened after a three-year period of architectural improvements. Originally opened in 1913, it was the first Toronto library built without any reliance on fancy Carnegie grants.
I entered the Bloor/Gladstone with a sense of anticipation, as patrons before me have done for ninety-six years. The lobby was sparse and white, with nothing to distract me from the generous atrium and a host of large windows above and beyond. To my right was a Learning Centre whose south wall looked like an aquarium-themed screen-saver. The blue screen’s opposite side livened up the north wall of the Children’s section, which was half a level below the lobby.

The designer of the kid’s zone demonstrated sensitivity to the human reader’s need to perch and nestle. In a gap between two tall shelves were two long green cushions, perfect for sinking into a literary reverie. A square green cushion rested on the floor against a side wall near comprehensive windows overlooking an outdoor patio. A thoughtfully-placed table sat beside the cushion, so a reader could lean against the wall and place a stack of picture books or a silver thermos of hot chocolate on it. And if these perches appeared too unconventional, a couple of robust yet puffy green sofas beckoned just steps away from the wall-cushion.

The lower level was very quiet compared to the upper one, where every single chair had an occupant. On the east wing, a historic stone hearth decorated with protruding cherub heads shared a corner of the room with a big screen TV. I loved the high arched mullioned windows whose sills were wide enough for teens to put their laptops on while resting their feet on a heater.

As I passed over to the west side of the top floor, I enjoyed looking over the atrium. Lining two sides of it were rows of squat orange swivel chairs that looked like decorous versions of spinning teacups at an amusement park. They even had clever side panels from which a desk can be pulled out, as airplane chairs provide when it’s time to accept your cup of soda and bag of pretzel sticks.

Before I crossed over into the new cube-shaped addition, I noticed a matching hearth, complete with attendant cherubs. I found more readers in swivel chairs there, although this time they were green and placed in front of the north windows overlooking Bloor Street. The west wing also contained an impressive variety of language materials, including French, Chinese, Vietnamese, Portuguese, Spanish, Tamil and Hindi. Finally, along the west wall were three engaging study rooms with green interiors and round air ducts (also painted green).  I made a vow to reserve Room B one day and revel in the studious atmosphere, infused with possibilities.

Bloor/Gladstone Library, we’ll meet again!