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.
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