Breakfast in Scarborough

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!

Visiting Weston Library was like stepping into a fairytale. Flower boxes, stones, and a vine-blessed trellis set the stage for enchantment, and the spell continued once I ventured inside the old section of the library. Constructed in 1914 with a Carnegie grant of $10,000, the structure’s simple elegance gave me a spiritual lift.

The old brick walls held exquisitely-coloured arched windows. Each one was decorated with multicoloured glass shields bearing the names of dead white male writers: Johnson, Ruskin, Shakespeare, Moore, Wordsworth, Dickens, Scott, Tennyson, Stevenson, Lamb, Burns, Chaucer, and Milton (among others). One window’s shield didn’t have a name underneath it, which gives me hope that it’s reserved for a live radical feminist of colour. What lively debates the windows’ representatives could have!

While most of the panes looked out onto the streets outside, one window offered a view of the staff’s office. This puzzling addition to one side of the building somewhat spoiled the fairy-tale effect for me. Why did they tack it on this way? It meant that after I spent some exalted moments contemplating the giants of literature, I suddenly fell to earth with a thud at the sight of filing cabinets, piles of paper, and a plastic snack tray. Also, I was distracted by a tempting spread of grapes, cookies, Cadbury fingers and doughnuts on the other side of the glass. A library staff member walked by and grabbed a morsel, casting a slightly apprehensive glance at me. Was I the snack police? Was I researching the dietary habits of librarians? I decided to move away from the window before the next snacker arrived.

The new wing of Weston Library, added in 1981, was to the right of the entrance and held the ESL, Teens, Spanish, and French collections. Finally, the basement level contained a spacious Children’s Department with murals that covered three walls. While Shakespeare, Lamb, and Milton kept it real upstairs, the pantheon of my favourite mural downstairs included Bambi, Snow White, a Wild Thing, Babar the Elephant, Winnie the Pooh, Curious George, Peter Rabbit, The Cat in the Hat, and Paddington Bear with a jar of marmalade. I wished someone had asked the muralist to match the writers above with characters in the basement. I see Chaucer and Burns as Wild Things, Dickens as Curious George, and Wordsworth as Bambi.

From murals to stained-glass windows, Weston Library was a delightful site to visit. I enjoyed feeling connected to a part of history just on the precipice of change before the first World War. Its square simplicity and implied faith in an unchanging literary canon reminded me of a quotation from L.M. Montgomery’s journal. In Lucy Maud Montgomery: The Gift of Wings, Montgomery’s biographer, Mary Rubio, cites a January 1932 journal entry which describes the world experienced by Montgomery’s generation compared to what two previous generations experienced: “They lived their lives in a practically unchanged and apparently changeless world. Nothing was questioned — religion — politics — society — all nicely mapped out and arranged and organized. And my generation! . . . Everything we once thought immoveable wrenched from its pedestal and hurled to ruins . . . our whole world turned upside down and stirred up — before us nothing but a welter of doubt and confusion and uncertainty.” (422-23). Gazing at windows which have endured for almost a century, I hope Lucy Maud would have been comforted to know that they are still here, even though the view is different.

Upon first glimpse of Richview Library, I noticed windows that looked like disposable razorblade containers, stone benches among the greenery, and tiled columns near the entrance. While the tall trees outside grew damper and damper, library patrons kept pouring into Richview branch. The long straight lines of the interior design provided contrast to the soggy swirl of rain outside.

On the main level, earnest study groups had taken ownership of the big tables, loading them down with heavy textbooks. The students conversed in many different languages, reflecting the diversity of the Islington and Eglinton area. Fortunately, Richview’s multilingual resources were large and varied, with French, Polish, Korean, Italian, and Chinese most heavily represented. There was even a Chinese “Best Bets” shelf, something I hadn’t seen before. It boasted a translated version of Greg Mortenson’s Three Cups of Tea, which I’d read recently. Urdu, Ukrainian, Spanish, Russian, and Croation were also contenders, accompanied by a huge ESL section.

Not to be outdone by so much linguistic abundance, the Romance collection was teeming with charming cads and swooning heroines. My two favourite titles were Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights and The Tycoon’s Very Personal Assistant. (I imagined imperilled paperweights and office supplies about to be swept from desktops).

None of the romance novels had “Local History Room” in their titles, and the no-nonsense research room upstairs seemed to explain why. However, a self-portrait by Norval Morrisseau beside the Local History Room’s door really enlivened this quiet corner of the library. I was fascinated by the red circles connected by a dark line to Morrisseau’s shoulders and floppy multicoloured hat.

The upstairs level also contained an art gallery lined with low wooden benches. Most of the exhibited paintings were the work of artist Wain Fun Ku, a man who had returned to his passion thirty years after leaving art school. Near the gallery was a large computer lab next to an enclosed Quiet Study Area (both completely full). I felt uplifted by Ku’s story as well as by the concentrated Saturday studiousness in the three rooms. Gallery, lab, and study area seemed to embody the hard work, the hours devoted, the incremental steps taken towards fulfilling cherished personal dreams.

Taking leave of the inspiring scene upstairs, I took the elevator down two levels and emerged into a spacious lobby where a row of empty trolleys waited to be filled with books for re-shelving. The hallway leading to the Children’s Department had a row of small desks lining one wall, creating a Quiet Study Area for this floor as well. The main room was a lovely wooden den of a place with some bricks for extra sturdiness. An alcove devoted to picture books and two red sofas contributed to the warm atmosphere, but the best detail of all was a carpeted ampitheatre in a corner. Perfect for storytelling performances, three tiers of steps provided the audience with carpeted perches. From Rome to Richview is not so far, especially when we have libraries to feed our imagainations!

Maria A. Shchuka Library seemed right at home in the thick of busy street life at the intersection of Eglinton Avenue West and Northcliffe Boulevard. As I sat beside Stewart in front of tall windows facing Eglinton Avenue, I watched the hectic swirl of traffic, transient groups of bus passengers, and passing pedestrians. I wondered if the Portuguese bakery across the street sold custard tarts and then turned my attention to the continuous bench that hugged the west and north walls.

Wanting to see how far the bench extended, I left my armchair to survey the main level. In the northeast corner was an imaginative children’s area with unconventionally-shaped furniture. The small tables were neither round nor square; instead, they looked like amoebas gently shaped into blobby flowers (with chairs to match). At floor level, I admired a quirky rocking-lounger as well as the lowest bookshelves I’ve ever seen. They actually resembled cubbyholes more than shelves, as they were cleverly tucked under the window bench on the west wall. This thoughtful arrangement placed small picture books within easy reach of toddlers.

Also attractive to Maria Shchuka’s youngest patrons but much more inaccessible was a rattle-tailed dragon with a peekaboo mirror on one foot and a flower pocket on the other. Custom-made to fit in the pocket, a soft daisy dangled from the dragon by a braid. Although this plush creature had wings, its legs were shackled by clear plastic restraints which were bolted to the top of a free-standing bookshelf.

Feeling sorry for the dragon’s restricted life, I walked up to the second floor. The upstairs shades had been drawn against the late afternoon sun, so everything looked more gray and silvery than downstairs. Computers lined two sides of a small atrium, making it difficult to peer all the way down into the reception area below. Maybe the designers were worried about pranksters dropping paperballs on people from on high. Though Maria A. Shchuka stopped being Head Librarian in 1996, she might have shaken her finger at mischievous types and shooed them into the spacious Learning Centre or the Adult Literacy Room. Besides, with so much to study at this branch — the Rita Cox Black and Caribbean Heritage Collection plus books in Chinese, Italian, Turkish, Portugese, Tagalog, Spanish, Russian, and Vietnamese — who could complain that boredom had driven them to lob paper missiles over the atrium?

Trowell Avenue ranks high on my list of pleasing street names, and the charm of Evelyn Gregory Library lived up to its address. A stand-alone building with a low roof, big trees on the lawn, and a large rock beside a picnic bench near the entrance, this branch was well-integrated into its residential surroundings. It looked like just another house on the block.

Completed in 1968, Evelyn Gregory’s interior also indicated a domestic scale. Its central checkout area had a warm brick wall behind it, which complemented the low ceiling and informal atmosphere.

To the left of the staff’s friendly bailiwick was the teens and children’s zone. The south wall of this section contained a large window, its prospect showing a square of dirt and its group of trees, greenish light pushing through the canopy. While I was gazing out the window, a ghoulish scream made me jump. I swiveled to my left and saw a grayish-green zombie face on a computer screen. Embarrassed by the attention, a teenager in a headscarf hastily turned down the volume of the scream.

Composure restored, I walked to the west wall to study a mural which was most likely painted during the childhood of the sheepish horror-fan’s parents. Against a pale blue background, kids were sledding, skating, building sand castles, playing leapfrog, and blowing bubbles. Many of them had long helmet hair like characters in Skooby Doo cartoons.

The east side of the library didn’t have any murals, but there were inviting carpeted ledges that jutted out from the base of two sets of wide windows. The ledge was too narrow to be an out-and-out bench, but there was just enough room to provide a purchase for patrons determined to perch. One young reader had snagged the coveted corner where the two ledges met to form a right angle. This spot afforded a more secure surface from which to lean backwards against the warm glass and fall into the pages of a book.

Tall shelves near the prime reading corner were filled with non-fiction materials, including Spanish, Portugese, and ESL offerings. A few shelves away, Evelyn Gregory’s DVD collection was especially robust, so Stewart and I were both able to find a movie we liked for a double-feature later that evening. I checked out Pineapple Express and The Secret Life of Bees and then we returned to the shaded sidewalks of Trowell Avenue.

A striking mural stopped me in my tracks as I walked through a side passageway to the entrance of Mount Dennis Library. I saw a man and a woman facing each other in the middle of a green field. A community of daffodils gathered in the foreground, and two trees framed the scene, transforming actual pillars into brown trunks. Painted wooden creatures had been riveted to the surface of the mural, creating a bulky applique effect. The riveted animals included a seagull, a cardinal, a raccoon looking at a ladybug, a wolfish dog, a bee hive on a branch, and a chipmunk (also on a branch). Brightly painted bees, ladybugs, and a butterfly added even more character to the picture.

After I passed through one of the entrance doorways, I noticed a curious detail on the vertical jamb between the two doors. Someone had painted a giraffe’s head near the top of the jamb, its ears and horns jutting into the lintel. Yellow and orange dots cascaded down the length of the jamb, suggesting a long neck. I really liked how the artist had seen a giraffe in the shape of an ordinary door jamb because it reminded me to look for whimsy in the day-to-day.

The main floor of Mount Dennis branch was one long rectangle in soft cream, demure yellow, and brown. With wide aisles and plenty of open space, the interior was restful if slightly empty-looking in places. High windows facing Weston Road provided a sunlit view of a wooden trellis that called out for grape vines (and a paint job) on the sidewalk. I also noticed that the interior paint was peeling in a few spots, and that water damage had taken out a chunk of the ceiling near the checkout desk. However, the main level was still a pleasant place to study in English, Spanish, Korean, Portuguese, or Vietnamese.

The basement level contained the children’s section and a series of giant wooden jigsaw pieces on the east wall. My favourite puzzle piece had a dark red background and was decorated with a diverse circle of children’s faces surrounded by painty handprints in green, purple, black, yellow, and blue. Lining the walls of a narrow corridor outside the children’s room was an art display called the “100 Dreams Project” which perfectly complemented the jigsaw piece. Kindergarten artists such as Adesh, Ashanti, Caleb, Demetri, Issacher, Jenny, Jah-Shy, Lotus, Megan, Marcus, Nawall, Shivani, Stephany, Yasmin, and Zipporah had painted kites, monsters, ice-cream cones, volcanoes, babies, guinea pigs, and a purple ball on small square canvases.

Mount Dennis Library was a congenial host for this exuberant exhibit by students from Dennis Avenue Community School. I hope it inspires all of us patrons to colour our walls with dreams!