Breakfast in Scarborough

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.

(This picture is actually a copy of the original taken from a page of the wall-book at the KidsStop at S. Walter Stewart Library).

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 appeal 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, for 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 (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, 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 historical context of the clothing. Some of the figures’ outfits suggest the toga and others are generic shapeless garments suitable for all manner of outdoor flouncing. Are the mural’s 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 and the Beanstalk. 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. There’s also a diaphanous fairy with wings who bends over a window. With her upper body supported by the window frame, her toes are free to dangle in a flower bed.

Jack the Giant Killer, 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 panel with the most disturbing details has to be Jack’s. His bloody sword and the drop of blood oozing from the giant’s dead mouth don’t make for the most relaxing of viewing experiences.

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 and grounds it 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 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.