Breakfast in Scarborough

Last night I walked from my house to Liberty Square Shopping Plaza to check out the freshly renovated Kennedy/Eglinton branch. Architects had transformed the seedy bar that used to sit beside the library into an extension housing a computer lab, community room, reading lounge and automated checkout area. More than doubling the space, the expansion and overall renovation has made Kennedy/Eglinton Library almost unrecognizable. What was once a cramped outpost of learning is now a spacious and handsome establishment that has taken Liberty Sqaure to a much better place.

From the polished tiles in the new entryway to the shiny surface of the computer counters, the entire enterprise radiated concern to offer the best facilities available. Complemented by a dark orange and brown colour-scheme, Kennedy/Eglinton had many textured spaces, corners, and rooms. The variety of furniture included armchairs, a study nook with a three-cornered bench, and a wooden window seat in the children’s section.

Patrons of all ages had come out to experience the new library, and almost every table, computer and study area was in use. As I wandered through the rooms, impressed by how alive the place was, I appreciated the linguistic diversity reflected in nearby shelves of materials in Chinese, Tamil, and Hindi. The quietest room in the library that evening was the community room, where an empty silver square smeared with blue and white icing lay on the sink counter.

Overcoming minor cake disappointment, I mentally thanked the Toronto Public Library system for this expanded branch in my neighbourhood. Built in 1988, I feel certain that Kennedy/Eglinton has always been the busy, friendly library I’ve known since 2002. But the building’s transformation has not only improved its looks; it actually makes the area feel better and safer. I used to feel intimidated to walk over to the library at night and drop off books because bar patrons would be perched on the outside window ledges of the library, ignoring signs that said, “Do not sit near the drop box”. I feel relieved that a former tavern tarnished by reports of serious assault is now a place of learning and community sanctuary. Long may its light shine!

In a blog-entry dated October 26, 2007, I wrote that Deer Park was the branch where I received my first Toronto Public Library card a couple of days after we immigrated to Canada in 2002. Since then, I’ve visited Deer Park so frequently that I stopped noticing its distinctive features. Last week I decided to look at it with fresh eyes, as if seeing it for the first time.

The centre of Deer Park Library is a large checkout station surrounded by library sections on all sides. Starting at the south wall and circling the desk counterclockwise, I walked through a sunny reading area with windows overlooking Saint Clair Avenue. On that busy afternoon last Monday, several patrons had drawn chairs right up to the window and propped their feet on the heater covers. A nearby bamboo plant provided calming vibes.

As I passed through aisles of fiction, I rounded the east wall and saw a Local History Collection, something I’d never noticed before. Crouching in front of the shelves, a few titles jumped out at me: Mount Pleasant Cemetery – An Illustrated Guide, Opportunity Road: Yonge Street 1860-1939, and A Short History of the Deer Park Branch Library: 1911-1952 The Store-front Years. The latter was a bound handwritten manuscript by Joan C. Kinsella from which I learned that Deer Park Library was initially nomadic, moving from one rented storefront to another until finally coming to rest at the current building in 1952.

Progressing through the north side of the library, what came into view were rows of non-fiction (including a full ESL collection), DVD’s and videos, reading tables, study carrels, and computer terminals. The west side contained the children’s section, which had a “low wall separating (it) from the main entryway” (”Breakfast in Scarborough” October 2007). My previous post mentioned that I’d once seen an exhausted man asleep on the red reclining chair beside the low wall, but last week the recliner was empty.

A dragon rested on top of one of two long shelves in the kid’s section. What I liked about this dragon was that it appeared to be made by hand. The dragon-crafter had utilized material from old backpacks or raincoats to fashion a fearsome creature with red and purple horns. It was impressive at an adult’s eye-level, so the dragon probably looked even more fierce from a child’s perspective.

The other shelf supported an even quirkier decoration: an oatmeal-coloured woolen castle! The castle complex had a green felt base and some fuzzy trees surrounding it. To the right of the entrance, a yellow-green dragon was sewn to the wall. The portcullis was a quarter of the way down, and the main doors were partly open, the silver ring handles waiting for a servant to pull them shut at sundown.

I couldn’t tell what materials comprised the underlying structure of the castle, but I was really taken by the fact that all the walls and turrets were covered in wool. (Beware invading knights on saddled moths!) One squat turret hosted a wizard in a high window, while a couple of the taller turrets had princesses in them. As an alternative to the crenelated parapets, some of the towers were topped with red roofs in the shape of upside-down cones. The circular courtyard was empty but seemed an ideal venue for a stately feast.

My day brightened by serious library with a knitted castle, I put my notes away and walked to the Saint Clair subway station.

In a post dated September 16, 2007, I wrote a brief line about Brookbanks Library, “a quiet branch near a karate school in North York”. I figured a more in-depth description was past due, so I paid a second visit to Brookbanks last Tuesday.

Tucked unobtrusively behind a shopping plaza, the modest building (built in 1968) contained an auditorium on the lower level, a main level, and a raised platform near the back of the main level that occupied about a quarter of the interior space (similar in design to Mimico Centennial). Connecting the main floor with the upper platform was a short flight of steps and a ramp in the shape of a backwards letter “L”.

Books and DVD’s in Farsi, French, Chinese, Hindi, Spanish, and Romanian caught my eye on the south wall, just to the right of the entrance. Presumably in response to a shift in local demographics, a couple of posted notices advised that the Russian collection had been moved to Fairview Library, as had the Tamil collection (which could also be accessed at Maryvale branch).

As I rounded the northeast corner of the main floor, I came upon agreeable window seats along the north wall. They were plush, gently purple, and low to the ground. A matching set, though upholstered in green, were in the fiction and teen section, located on the raised level. Young patrons reading on the floor and lounging on green cushions gave the library a homey, comfortable atmosphere. I liked how nobody was shooing them in the direction of more conventional surfaces like tables and chairs.

I took the ramp back down to the main level, which gave me the opportunity to check out an elaborate mural that stretched across a third of the north wall and most of the west wall. The centerpiece of the work was a large tree trunk from which grew copious foliage spreading in two directions. The more I looked into the leaves, the more I discovered: the yellow hat of Curious George’s guardian, a trio of capital A’s and B’s, a green monster claw grabbing a purple book, a yellow rabbit, mangos, parrots, a sign that warned of “Snoozing Grues!”, birds with no middles (only legs, beaks, and spectacles), a second descending monster foot (white with pink talons), blue bears, and a Famous Tails collection that included thin tails, fat tails, and striped tails in assorted colours.

The last set of window seats of the day (blue this time) were flush against the south wall in the children’s section. A huge white bear, taller than many of the aspiring readers in his jurisdiction, hosted a number of other stuffed animals on his person. Three bunnies — Bugs, a generic rabbit in calico, and one in a camouflage jumpsuit — rested on the bear’s lap while a turtle and small bear occupied his right leg. A large Curious George doll sat to the big bear’s left and rested a friendly hand on his shoulder. A marketing-savvy librarian had propped a copy of Knut the Baby Polar Bear just below George’s hand.

Taking a final glance around Brookbanks Library, I noticed a fuzzy piranha in green and blue near my left foot. Although its many teeth were made of felt and I wasn’t wearing sandals, I decided it was an excellent time to catch an express bus on York Mills Road.

When I first started blogging about the Toronto Public Library branches, my notes were fairly cursory. Now that I’m deeper into the project (74 branches deeper), I’d like to flesh out those earlier posts into fuller descriptions. In fact, this very post will fill in the details of a previously-visited library, Yorkville, where dignified stone lions guard the front steps.

I learned from a historical display near Yorkville’s vestibule that the building was completed in 1906, making it “Toronto Public Library’s oldest library.” Yorkville was “the first of four libraries built with a $350,000 Carnegie grant . . . in 1903″. City Architect Robert McCallum designed the 1906 library in a “Classical Beaux Arts” style, and I think he made a great choice to go classical. Once I’d made it past the lions, solid interior columns, reassuring square room-sections, and tasteful lemon walls all worked together to create a timeless sense of peace and stability.

As I surveyed the facility from a broad wooden table, it was comforting to feel connected to more than a century of continuous self-education in such a lovely setting. With the front windows revealing a mass of tree leaves, it was easy to imagine away the twenty-first century commercialism of nearby Yonge and Bloor. According to the historical exhibit, when Yorkville branch was constructed, this area was considered the northern part of Toronto. And something of that quieter time and place seemed to remain in the library, the legacy of a slower, less harshly-lit era. I really appreciated the break from honking cars, gadget-addled pedestrians, and insistent storefronts.

To get reacquainted with the library’s offerings, I walked over to the checkout area (noting the high lozenge-shaped lamps like Wychwood’s) and veered left. Next to the DVD section was a portion of Yorkville’s LGBT Special Collection, unique to this branch. On the other side of the room was a substantial French-language section, along with adult fiction and books for teenagers.

Between the first segment of the library and the third (all connected on one level) was the area where I had been sitting. It contained lots of tables, the computers, and a helpful ESL and Adult Literacy collection. The last segment housed the children’s books (including lots of French materials), more shelves of fiction, and a special meeting room that boasted many sets of plays. To take advantage of these textual riches, a play-reading group meets there every Tuesday evening, choosing dramatic works by Eugene O’Neill, Norah Harding, Hanif Kureishi, and Vaclav Havel among others.

As I reversed direction to exit, I paused to admire a cloth ship hanging from the ceiling in the kids’ section. Unlike more prosaic vessels, this ship had a rainbow tail like a kite’s. The tail was pinned to the ceiling in two places, creating a shape like a cursive letter “w” that slanted to the right. Sailing out the door, I reflected on what a treat it was to have visited two Carnegie libraries in as many weeks! Back-to-back nerd delight!

In search of my 74th Toronto Public Library, I took the subway to Keele station and then walked north along Keele until I discovered Annette Street. After turning left, it wasn’t long before I spotted the solid classical form of Annette Street Library, which opened one hundred years ago. Situated beside a Masonic Temple and across from a church building that was for sale, Annette Street branch shared the Edwardian flair of Yorkville Library (1907). The year of Annette Street Library’s construction, 1908, was etched in stone above a grand entrance flanked by two ramps. Two solid Corinthian columns framed the door, adding drama to the mere act of ascending the stone steps into the building. My library, my temple!

Initially descending into the basement level, I came upon an office devoted to the West Junction Historical Society and its archives. The office was closed, but I was able to peer into a lovely darkened room that was waiting for the next day’s scholars to turn up with their notebooks, questions, and visions of the past. This lower level also contained two community rooms concealed behind massive wooden doors with extra-wide frames.

Retracing my steps to the lobby, I went up a short curving staircase to the main level. I liked the heightened suspense created by delaying immediate entry to the library; the staircase provided a feeling of physical elevation, of having to work a little harder and reach a little higher to achieve access to the books. (However, the elevator was also an option). At the top of the steps, the check-out desk was directly in front of me. Getting my visual bearings, I was immediately awestruck by the luxuriously high ceilings that contained cornices decorated with carved ferns. Wow! What elegant mouldings! What classy hanging lamps with glass globes!

A century-old “Edison Home Phonograph” rested in the gap between the wall behind the checkout area and shelves of children’s books behind it. Moving closer to study the historical object, I marvelled at the way such a thin tube supported the giant unfurled cornucopia of a speaker. To the left side of the checkout station (and behind it) was the children’s wing. Filled with a wide variety of books, DVD’s, French materials, and music, this part of the library looked like a well-organized educational playroom that achievement-oriented parents had provided for their many kids. For instance, there was an earnest poster next to shelves of children’s non-fiction which showed the different trees found in Ontario’s Forest Regions: White Birch, Trembling Aspen, Sugar Maple, Sassafras, Tulip Tree, and Eastern White Pine. Next to a collection of CD-Roms (including one on dinosaurs) sat a stuffed Barney. Barney’s fur was mostly reddish purple, but his tummy was green and his six toes yellow. Far above Barney’s head were two train sets facing off on a narrow ledge, a fitting tribute to local history, as West Toronto Junction “began as a Canadian Pacific Railway Stop” (as explained by a sign on the other side of the library).

Before I explored the remainder of the building, I paused at a table to get a greater sense of the atmosphere. It was fairly quiet on the Wednesday afternoon that I visited. Most of the windows were open on that glorious May day, making this library the perfect oasis to savour the end of a long winter. Eggshell-white walls complemented the pearly natural light which filled the interior, making the place calm, clean, open, and airy. All that was missing was a nineteenth-century gentlewoman playing the pianoforte in an Empire gown while her listeners reclined in states of polite repose.

Imaginary pianofortes are well and good, but the library certainly had its practical side. When I got up to investigate the west wing, I noticed a special display of books for job-seekers. (I read in Margaret Penman’s A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983 that the Toronto libraries performed a similar function in the 1930’s, providing a haven for the unemployed and books on topics such as crafts, welding, sales and agriculture (43)). The ESL section was solid, as was the large collection of French books. The west wing also featured a Local History section, which contained titles like “Mayors of Toronto” and “Not a One Horse Town.” Supporting the historical theme, portraits of the first five mayors of West Toronto Junction (in office from 1889 to 1898) presided high on a wall near the check-out desk, a quintet of very purposeful-looking gentlemen. And a nearby plaque commemorated the fact that Annette Street branch (formerly Western Branch) was built with funding from Andrew Carnegie and the Public Library Board of the City of West Toronto.

Of Annette Street Library’s many charms, one last feature was a pleasing study area that dipped about two feet below the main floor. I found this carpeted depression to be a great spot to daydream while looking out onto Annette Street. Although chairs were available, one relaxed patron was sitting on the floor beside the window studying the newspaper. I felt fortunate to just sit there while a quiet contentment seemed to fill the sunny room on that warm day.

Tall pylons and chimney stacks near Bathurst and Finch provided the backdrop to Centennial Library, which stood in front of a recreational facility called Herbert H. Carnegie Centennial Centre. Beside the library’s entrance was a quirky sculpture by Ron Baird which Stewart described as an “oyster on legs.” After appreciating the sculpture’s oysteriness for a few moments, we entered a large square room with a central dividing wall that didn’t completely bisect the room’s entire width.

Windows comprised the majority of the library’s southern, street-facing wall, and plenty of reading chairs and tables invited patrons to take advantage of this open and well-illuminated space. On the Saturday that we visited Centennial, every possible reading perch was occupied by readers concentrating on their thoughts, dreams, and lessons. These studious people sparkled like jewels in a treasure chest of books, and the library walls in pastel violet created the ideal foil for them to shine. To encourage the polishing of brilliance were books in French, Hebrew, Russian, Tagalog, and English-learning texts. For those in search of lighter reading, the Romance section had “Desert Ice Daddy” and “The Cowboy Wants a Baby.” And for newcomers looking for social connections, a notice board provided details about North York Community House’s Host Program.

The Children’s Area was on the west side of the central dividing wall and boasted a colourful spring scene made from paper. A long tree branch stretched across part of the west wall and presented its cherry blossoms to the viewer. A paper plate drenched in yellow paint successfully represented the sun, while the branch arched over some tulips, a deer, and a large mushroom with a yellow bird sheltering under its eave.

I really enjoyed Centennial’s unpretentious cheeriness; it struck me as a down-to-earth branch that has not been taken for granted by its local patrons. Tucking newly borrowed books and CD’s in bags, we returned to our Honda parked in the shadow of an enormous Hydro pylon. And that was the end of library visit number seventy-three!

On a visit to Hillcrest branch near Leslie Street and Steeles last month, I was impressed by how enthusiastically it celebrated Easter. The lobby showcased a holiday display on three shelves behind a glass screen. Nests blessed with eggs rested near stuffed toy rabbits which were kitted out with straw hats and carrot accessories. One bunny projected pastel cool with his pink spectacles and a purple felt hat that had holes for his ears to flop through. Perhaps the result of chomping on too many fake carrots, one of his teeth was hanging out quite far from his mouth. Nearby, some more rabbits were performing the splits, wielding a wheelbarrow, and gardening with a shovel. Framing the dynamic mammals, two large Easter baskets were overflowing with chicks, eggs, grass, lilies, and yet more bunnies. Plastic grass carpeted the flat spaces between Easter objects, including a tree stand adorned with painted wooden eggs, a fuzzy purple chick and one white goose.

Moving into the library proper, I surveyed the large square room of this pleasant neighbourhood branch. Hillcrest’s size, layout, and atmosphere was very similar to Pleasant View, Elmbrook Park, and Goldhawk Park branches. In addition to a comprehensive selection of fiction and non-fiction, Hillcrest Library had a solid ESL section, from which I selected an abridged reader about The Beatles for my class. It also had a sizable French and Chinese collection. In the northeast corner of the room, a window bench invited sun-loving readers to lounge for a spell by the broad windows. And one last distinctive detail was a funky satellite mobile which dangled from the ceiling near the checkout desk. The satellite was shaped like a jack (as in the jacks you pick up between bounces of a ball), and its many limbs came in purple, green, yellow, blue, and pink. Purple balls jutted from the ends of each jack-limb. Gaping at this psychedelic satellite was an excellent distraction from waiting in line, and in a cosmic second I was (temporarily) a book and DVD richer.

Not long before Saint Patrick’s Day, I visited Eatonville Library, a large branch at the intersection of Burnhamthorpe and Highway 427. Near the check out desk was a holiday display strewn with paper shamrocks that nestled between upright books by Roddy Doyle and Maeve Binchey as well as Irish Dancing videos. Though the building was big, there wasn’t much space to put my hands on my hips and kick, for Eatonville was packed with busy patrons. On that Saturday afternoon, it was much more crowded than other southwest Toronto branches like Elmbrook Park, Humber Bay, New Toronto, and Alderwood.

Eatonville was built in 2001, but so much heavy use seemed to have faded its millennial shininess; I was getting a more a gritty, urban vibe from this branch. Eatonville’s densely-packed multicultural intensity reminded me of branches closer to my home in Scarborough, such as Fairview and Bridlewood. Behind a couple of turnable carrels of paperback fiction, a man prayed on his knees, rising and then returning to rest his forehead on the floor again and again. Moreover, reading material for Eatonville patrons in Chinese, Hindi, Korean, Polish, Punjabi, and Spanish reflected the multilingual richness that was also strikingly alive in branches such as Malvern, Agincourt, North York Central, S. Walter Stewart, Cedarbrae, McGregor, Riverdale, Parkdale, and Gerrard/Ashdale.

Eatonville’s children’s section was vast, well-stocked, and pleasant, but graffiti carved into the wooden window bench provided more urban flavour than the library was probably hoping for. Even the stuffed animals that lined two high shelves had seen better days; many of them were stained with magic marker, fur-tattered, and ready for retirement. Nevertheless, the sheer volume of the stuffed assembly was impressive: a frog lying on his back, a witch with green hair, a sun, two octopus cousins, a bunny, a duck, a blue and green bumblebee, a blue dog, a burgandy elephant, a clown, an electric-lime-green bear, a black hen, and a panda bear in a blue snow suit. In the middle of the section was a purple cardboard castle with Tinkerbell perched on a turret decorated with real cobwebs.

As I waited in a long line to check out a travel DVD, I gazed up at the high ceiling and appreciated the breathing room it inspired. Walking back to the car, I admired the tall grasses planted around the perimeter of the building, the exterior of which looked like a silver oceanliner beached at the highway’s edge. I wished all the readers inside happy sailing!

My seventieth Toronto Public Library was Elmbrook Park, the most westerly of all the branches. A modern building on the edge of a small neighbourhood park, Elmbrook Park library was blessed with lots of sunlight filling the interior.

The sunniness was especially bright near an arresting picture window behind the checkout desk. The glass was divided into six panes, with each one representing an imaginary world to which books can transport us. As I looked from right to left on the top half of the window, I studied a purple dragon with fire-breath, a castle, and some Egyptian stick-figures milling around a giant tree near a pyramid. Continuing counterclockwise, the lower panel contained a pirate ship, an island studded with palm trees, real library bags hanging from a hook, and some stick cavemen menaced by a pterodactyl and a dinosaur that said “Roarr!”. Sensibly, the prehistoric stick-men stayed in their cave, which was decorated with dynamic hunting scenes.

The entire left half of Elmbrook Park library was devoted to making young readers feel welcome. A comfortable chair supported a cuddly bear in a red flannel bow-tie, a mama hippo with two babies attached to her side, a floppy frog, and a bunny in pink pajamas. A green triceratops had been flung horn-first onto a low table but appeared to be in good spirits. Sitting on top of a shelf was a stuffed felt bean about the size of a large mango, from which sprouted, well, sprouts in light and dark green. A Jack doll was hanging like Tarzan from one of these vine-like sprouts. Near the bean stood a mustachioed giant flanked by two women. I assumed one of the female dolls was Jack’s mother, but I wasn’t sure about the other one. Was she the giant’s wife? A social worker concerned about Jack’s education? I looked around for the cow and some gold coins, but they were gone, possibly bartered or spent in these tough economic times.

Happily, Humber Bay expanded my number of Toronto Public Library visits to sixty-nine. A compact square building, this branch had dark wooden siding on part of the exterior, creating a cabin-like effect. The wood motif was repeated inside the library, most prominently in the sturdy check-out station. There, several librarians were performing their duties in what seemed like a massive oaken puppet theatre, with dark beams over their heads, below their hands, and composing the broad columns that framed the desk. Despite the prevalence of heavy wood and the building’s low ceiling, Humber Bay was by no means claustrophobic, thanks to two walls composed almost entirely of glass.

A small but well-furnished branch, Humber Bay Library offered its patrons books in Russian and Polish in addition to the standard materials. In the children’s section was an Easter book display that included The Easter Bunny that Overslept. And not far from the rabbit with punctuality issues was another display, this one featuring the local winners of a bookmark design contest. I liked the one which had a Christmas tree reading a book about Christmas at the top of the bookmark. Below the tree floated a blue ghost learning about Halloween. Next down was a turkey studying a Thanksgiving text, followed by a heart, a bookish birthday present, an egg, and a literate shamrock. They all looked happy, even the turkey.

Only a handful of readers were at Humber Bay branch on the day of my visit. As I sat at an empty table near the streetside window, I searched for words to sum up the library’s ambiance: simple, manageable, light-filled, wholesome, enclosed, reserved, and classic.

Integrated into a community centre and French-immersion school, Alderwood branch was located half-way down a wide hallway, opposite Alderwood Pool. A huffing fairy-tale wolf could never hope to blow down this huge open rectangle of a library, as its walls were made of giant bricks.

I couldn’t figure out why this branch seemed so familiar until I realized that it projected the same white-brick institutionalism I associate with school libraries. In fact, after I walked around the entire space, I found out that it actually was a school library as well as a Toronto Public Library. In the corner closest to the immersion school was a well-stocked selection of French materials for children. And a “Class in Progress” sign was at the ready for the next school day.

Plenty of French books abounded in the general part of the library, as did Polish and English resources. Upon closer inspection, I reconsidered my “institutional” description. It was probably an overreaction to all those white bricks, for there were many craft creations that warmed the place up: a cardboard Casa Loma replica, a model forest in a box (complete with rock cave), an ant farm with grains standing in for live insects, a zoo with abstract animal shapes, and a chateau with pebbles pasted on the exterior to fine effect. Providing further texture to the scene were two men absorbed in a game of chess, an elderly man sleeping under a life-sized plastic tree, and two fake birds (a blue jay and a cardinal) perched on porcelain branches that in turn rested on top of some bookshelves.

To conclude this post, I’d like to compliment Alderwood Library on its clever hanging rack for ESL kits. These kits come in tough plastic bags with handles that click into place and can be hung from rods. In most libraries, the kits hang all in a row like shirts in a closet, but Alderwood’s rack was designed so that language-learning patrons could easily access the kits from four different angles. Having frequently wrestled with kits so mashed together that they discouraged browsing, I really appreciated this innovation in rack-design.

A recent rainy afternoon found me at Mimico Centennial Library, a friendly neighbourhood branch in southwest Toronto that was built in (surprise!) 1967. As I walked up the path to the front entrance, I noticed that Mimico Centennial’s grounds were much more extensive than those of libraries in land-strapped downtown. Inviting long benches rested on a courtyard, hinting at future summer relaxation under the trees.

The library’s interior was equally spacious and uncrowded, with floor-to-ceiling front windows. One of the windows featured paper icebergs, snowflakes, and polar bear families floating in a carefree, random manner. Other windows came with blue leather window seats, and I was especially delighted with one quiet corner where the seat afforded a view of a sturdy pine tree. Imagine the poems, math assignments, doodles, love letters, and journal entries that have been composed at that very spot!

In addition to its daydreaming opportunities, I was impressed by the size of Mimico Centennial’s Polish collection. Polish books filled almost two-thirds of one entire wall of shelving, the other third comprised of materials in Russian, with Spanish and ESL also making a respectable showing. Shifting my gaze from the shelves to the ceiling, my curiosity was intrigued by two iron staircases leading to an upper level. This higher perch occupied part of the ceiling space of the main floor and served as a study area (similar to Wychwood branch). The stairs beckoned, so I went up to investigate. I was surprised but not displeased to find mostly empty space. Only a few tables distracted from the vast expanse of carpet, and I saw just one educational display, a literacy tool that utilized twenty-six paper frogs stuck on the wall. Each frog was wearing a letter on its belly, and lists of words which started with that particular letter were written underneath. Six of the alphabet-loving amphibians were still patiently waiting for their words: frogs J, K, Q, V, X, and Z.

After descending the south staircase to return to the main level, I found a DVD on Bollywood dance and trotted over to the checkout desk. The personable librarian told me to enjoy my selection. Then I dashed down to the basement level to admire a glossy round table made from a giant tree-trunk. The carvings of buffalo, foxes, and maple leaves provided just the right Canadian touch to enhance the patriotic quality of a library constructed one hundred years after Canadian federation.

My search for the Saint Clair/Silverthorn branch took me to a part of Toronto I’d never visited before. From Saint Clair West subway station, I caught the westbound 512 bus and rode along Saint Clair West until I heard the automated announcement for Silverthorn. Familiar blue TPL lettering in a white sign-box soon caught my eye as I walked along the street. The library before me was housed in a storefront building, like Mount Pleasant, Saint Lawrence, and Gerrard/Ashdale branches.

Consisting of one large room, St. Clair/Silverthorn had a friendly scholastic atmosphere which seemed to say, “Come on in and do your homework!” A long wooden windowseat doubled as a low bookcase and offered a view of the construction outside. Apart from the pretty fern pattern on the carpet, there were no notable decorations, rendering the library’s style somewhat bland, especially compared to the previous branch I visited, Wychwood.

Three shelves were reserved for the ESL collection, in addition to a couple of silver rods from which hung ESL kits, abridged readers, and TOEFL study guides in tough plastic bags. Four shelves showed off an impressive selection of graphic novels, and nearby were lots of books in Portugese. Two titles from the Romance collection stood out: “Three Brides for Three Bad Boys” and “Wrangling the Redhead.” I kept hoping to see a title like “Wrangling the Egghead”.

Last Tuesday afternoon I took the number 7 bus from Bathurst Station to visit my 63rd Toronto Public Library. As I walked down Bathurst from the Saint Clair West intersection, I caught sight of a sensible-looking castle with timbered window-frames and a lovely fat turret. Actually, the correct term for Wychwood Library’s architectural style is “Tudor-Collegiate.” I learned this from a framed educational display which described the history of the building. Almost a hundred years ago, a fifty-thousand dollar grant from the Carnegie Corporation of New York supported the realization of Wychwood, the first of two other identical branches (High Park and Beaches) to be built in Toronto. Designed by Eden Smith, Wychwood Library was completed in 1915 and opened to the public on April 15, 1916. (To put the date in a personal context, my late grandmother Raine would have been five years old in 1916, though she must have sent her regrets regarding the opening because she lived in Memphis, Missouri).

The pleasing combination of wood and stone on the outside of Wychwood branch was consistent with the look of the interior. The checkout desk on the ground floor featured glossy dark wood and the east wall contained an enormous cream-coloured stone fireplace.

Inside the large round turret was a program room with carpeted steps for seating. Further along the entrance level, the austerity of the empty hearth was offset by two plush sunflowers hanging from a nearby sign that said “Picture Books.” The yellow felt centres of the flowers had smiley faces stitched on them, and multi-coloured petals radiated cheer in red, yellow, and green. Two large papier-mache fish adorned with yellow, blue, and green scales further animated the space, as did a model of a tall ship with a wooden vessel and russet sails. I also enjoyed the fanciful “Dinosaur Farm Mural” on the south wall, which depicted chickens running around a friendly T-Rex and some spotted porcine Triceratop creatures.

I walked up the narrow steps to the next level, and my first look at the vast openness over my head was literally breathtaking. Who knew a high timbered ceiling could be so exciting? Four ceiling fans turned unobtrusively in the Tudor-Collegiate barn of the first floor. Elegant lamps on long stems dangled like upside-down lollipops (the kind that crunch like sweet-tarts instead of the circular swirly variety).

The wood ceiling and the stone fireplace (identical in structure and position to the one downstairs) reminded me of the ancient monks’ dormitory at Durham Cathedral where I used to read poetry and academic texts during my junior year abroad. Also, the mullioned windows, dark wood, and muted lamps were similar to another Carnegie library in Glasgow, Missouri. Glasgow is a small town beside the Missouri River which Stewart and I once visited. I remember Glasgow’s local newspaper featured an article about a prize-winning “Big Sweet Tater.”

After I stopped gaping at Wychwood’s ceiling, I walked through the upper half of the turret (above the program room) which had a curved balcony that wrapped around it. Next to a large bunch of bamboo in a pot was the French section. The ESL collection was also substantial, as were the fiction and reference offerings.

There was one remaining area to be explored, a third floor perch which had been constructed under the west eave. It took up roughly a quarter of the space afforded by the hall’s luxuriously high ceiling. Containing one big study table and a few individual carrels, this cozy platform gave me the feeling of being in a tree-house. Sitting at the table facing east provided a rich opportunity to observe the scene below. A librarian sat behind a three-sided desk absorbed in bookish tasks and a group of patrons took advantage of the free internet service at a cluster of computers. I felt at peace just resting at the wide table, taking a few notes for this blog post.

Built in 1962, Forest Hill branch presides on a rise of land located on the north side of Eglinton Avenue West, just east of Bathurst. It has a wide central aisle flanked by four large arches which span well-spaced rows of shelving. Each arch contains a wavy piece of metal in its top third. Silver mesh occupies the space between the curved metal and the apex of the arch.

I enjoyed walking down the main aisle, noting the large fiction collection, young adult grotto furnished with a red recliner, solid ESL offerings, and an unmarked Hebrew and Yiddish section. Apart from kits for learning Russian and French, Forest Hill branch didn’t have the diverse multilingual collections I was used to seeing in Scarborough. It was also less crowded and more hushed than most of the branches east of the Don Valley Parkway, especially Woodside Square, Steeles, Agincourt, Malvern, Cedarbrae, Albert Campbell, and Pape Danforth.

Without a patron or stroller in sight, the Forest Hill children’s section was completely quiet. A forlorn train set rested on a ledge above the raised and enclosed pre-school area. The train’s body was composed of five boxes in varying sizes. They were covered in fading red, yellow, and blue construction paper, but the sixth box, the engine car, was decorated in black. While each box had two cardboard wheels each, the engine box had some extra features. For a chimney, it sprouted a cardboard tube (a recycled paper-towel spool), and an opaque white plastic bag puffed out of the chimney as steam. All six boxes carried a word, which together announced, “All Aboard the Forest Hill Express!”.

This Toronto Public Library fan visited her sixtieth and sixty-first branches recently. Todmorden Room was number sixty, a library I’d actually tried to check out last year, only to find it temporarily closed. Located inside East York Community Recreation Centre, Todmorden Room was the smallest branch I’ve visited so far; a sign informed me that its maximum capacity was 33 people. The modest size of this branch, however, was a large part of its charm. It created the feel of a frontier outpost of literacy — like a bookmobile parked for the winter in an isolated prairie town.

The checkout desk of Todmorden Room was directly in front of the entrance, and Stewart was struck by how the librarian greeted each incoming patron by name. Even though there were only eight people in the library (including two staff members), we kept tripping over each other as we moved up and down the two short aisles. Supporting the frontier metaphor, Todmorden Room was very spartan in its decorations — white walls, brown shelves, with only two paper flowers in the shape of large macaroons (one in orange and yellow, the other in blue and purple) to liven up the space.

The only multilingual resource I noticed was a Spanish learning kit with a CD, and the ESL collection had fourteen books (hardly the fault of library with so little space to spare). As at Woodside Square and Bridlewood, the romance genre was well-represented at Todmorden Room, and it included a couple of titles that caught my fancy: “Kidnapped by the Cowboy” and “Outback Boss, City Bride.” Somebody please teach these rural male protagonists some dating skills!

As I exited the room, I noticed a cream-coloured locker beside the check-out desk, possibly a hand-me-down from the gym down the hall. I liked how the library seemed to be a well-integrated part of the community centre, which also offered swimming and martial arts classes.

The sixty-first branch on my library quest was Pleasant View, which was also the very last branch east of the Don Valley Parkway that I hadn’t visited. Hoorah!

Pleasant View had its own building, though it was just next door to a community centre. To the right of the library’s entrance was a glass display case filled with objects related to Chinese New Year: lucky red envelopes, an illustrated zodiac, and a red firecracker decoration. As I ambled around Pleasant View, I discovered a medium-sized auditorium, sections with books in Chinese, French, and Italian, as well as a robust ESL collection. I was especially taken with the open reading areas. There was one in each of the four corners of the building, all with comfy chairs and floor-to-ceiling windows.

Though Pleasant View branch generally seemed very utilitarian and functional in character, its whimsical side was expressed in the children’s section. Five arches that contained portraits of animal characters were separated by flat columns that had been splashed with flecks of pink and green paint, creating a very trippy effect. Proceeding from left to right, the first portrait starred a seated deer wearing a sari. Relaxing in a temple grove, the deer held a book (or possibly a large Blackberry) in her hooves. While she read, she was serenaded by a woman with a sitar and a man with a drum. Next to the deer was a simpler picture of a rabbit who was wearing the traditional clothes of an unnamed First Nation band. The third frame depicted the head and neck of a cheerful giraffe. She wore a patterned red scarf and a green and yellow tunic. The fourth animal’s identity was unclear to me; possibly it was a rat, but its whiskers looked sort of feline. This ambiguous creature was garbed in some class of priestly robes. Finally, the last animal portrait featured a scholarly bear at work in his study. He wore a robe like an Oxford don and a blue hat in the shape of a Yorkshire pudding.

Inspired by the studious bear, I’m looking forward to continuing the library pilgrimage. Only thirty-eight more branches to go! (Although I’d like to go back to some of the very first ones I blogged about and fill in more details).

The previous post described the first two libraries out of the five Stewart and I visited a couple of weeks ago, so now I’d like to focus on the remaining three.

Goldhawk Park branch resided in its own square building and seemed less trendy than Woodside Square. However, Goldhawk Park’s location on the edge of a large park gave it a scenic advantage, as Woodside patrons had only a Food Basics parkingscape for inspiration when they looked up from their books. So much reading in my childhood may have made me fanciful, but to me Goldhawk Park looked like a chalet of books in marginally-alpine village on the Markham border. Resting on the rim of a pasture dotted with fir trees, the chalet offered a chair and a newspaper to weary literary pilgrims.

As I made a quick tour of the facility, I accidentally disturbed a seniors’ coffee afternoon in progress. Recovering my cool after a swift exit from the meeting room, I sat down at a table in front of a park-side window. When I had my fill of admiring the vast open field with blowing snow, I walked through the main area, noting the shelves of books in Hindi, Tamil, and Chinese. All in all, I liked the unpretentious and comfortable atmosphere of Goldhawk Park.

Pushing on to Steeles Library, the peaceful natural setting gave way to the insanely busy parking lot of Bamburgh Gardens Shopping Plaza. Stewart dropped me off and heroically went to find a parking space while I investigated the fourth library of the afternoon.

Steeles branch was located on the left side of a concrete walkway leading to the mall. Steeles was very compact, and the homey impression created by its lime green walls was taken up a notch by the presence of several stuffed creatures on top of a high shelf: a gorilla, tweety bird, and Marvin the Martian. Similarly to Woodside Square, Steeles had lots of Chinese New Year decorations and an enthusiastic crowd of library-users, with nearly every chair occupied by a reader. It made me happy to see so many folks consuming words instead of mall-products.

The fifth and final library of the day, Bridlewood, was a tenant of a mall with the same name. This branch was a big white square room around the corner from the bulk food store and Jasmine Chinese Food. In comparison to Malvern and Woodside Square, Bridlewood appeared more downmarket, with its handmade decorations and non-automated check-out desk. In this respect, Bridlewood reminded me of the library in the small town where I grew up, especially when I saw the large paper snowflake cut out by hand and a poster made from black construction paper and photocopies of cartoons. The most prominently low-budget decoration had to be a rocket that hung from the ceiling near the youth section. A roll of brown construction paper formed the body of the rocket, and more of the same kind of paper had been fashioned into the pointy head of the missile. The initials “TPL” were written on the side, each letter cut from brown paper with a larger outline of the letters in aluminum foil as background, and beside the initials was a globe in dark and light blue paper. Yet more aluminum foil flared out in streamers from the hind end of the rocket. Though I believe the time may have come to retire this particular ornament, I do agree that reading can transport you all around the world and even to space.

Apart from the rocket, other noteworthy features of Bridlewood branch included a blue toadstool table, books in Chinese and Urdu, and a romance title “Beauty and the Beastly Rancher.” I didn’t check out the romance novel to learn what made the rancher so beastly, but I was very glad of this beautiful Saturday afternoon spent at five great libraries. As the number of Toronto Public Libraries I’ve visited continues to skyrocket (now up to 59!), I grow more and more impressed with the wonderful services they provide to local communities. It makes me proud to carry my blue library card in my wallet! Long may the TPL flourish!