Breakfast in Scarborough

I believe an ideal library should have adjoining grounds full of greenery. This expectation can be traced to my childhood home near William Jewell College, whose library sat on top of a hill blessed with abundant large trees. Thus spoiled, I tend to want a tree to be waiting for me and my new book when I exit a library. With ample lawns and tree cover on three sides, High Park branch provided just such an opportunity.

The interior of this historic Carnegie-funded library didn’t fall short of aesthetic ideals, either. Boasting a high timbered ceiling on the second floor like its sister branches, Wychwood (1916) and Beaches (1916), High Park’s Edwardian dignity created a calm, even sanctified atmosphere. Indeed, one of the librarians told me that patrons often ask her if the building used to be a church. In truth, it has never been used for religious purposes, unless you count the Christmas carollers who find a natural perch on the mini-third floor on the east side, projecting their voices into the depth of space.

I trotted up the steps to the singing and reading platform, glorying in the perspective it provided. Standing on this inward-facing balcony, I could take in the entire south wing of the upper level. I enjoyed looking at the dark brown timbers, the central stripe of orange paint, the stone hearth, and the painting above it. From my heightened stance, I speculated about all the thousands of thoughts, from the dullest to the most sublime, which have floated in the air far above the readers’ heads for almost a century! Quiet gentlemen in cuff links might have taken unplanned naps or composed purple poems to flappers. Such a soaring ceiling couldn’t help but play host to a rich silence full of unvoiced flights of fancy.

I appreciated the contemplative separateness of the inner balcony, the way it provided a place apart to think and study. When I returned to the second floor proper, I discovered another nook along the south wall. This alcove held the Jobs and Literacy collection and a hopeful skylight. It seemed the perfect spot to make big decisions about personal and professional development.

Not far from the sunny alcove resided an extensive Polish collection, which included the sample pictured below. I wished I could just pick up and read a page or two, but my brief trip to Poland in 1992 only equipped me with a few greetings and the odd vocabulary word, mostly food-related.

After tilting my head back for a serious bout of window-gazing, I walked to the north wing, only to find more windows to appreciate, especially a large one facing the side of Emmanuel Howard Park United Church. The table in front of it was a gorgeous day-dreaming spot, as was the Teen Zone with its reading bench shaped like half of a picture-frame. Both the Teen corner and the fiction section had a wonderful air of openness thanks to the high windows that overlooked the greenery below.

The expansiveness of the upper floor gave way to a cozier lower level, which was primarily devoted to children’s materials. The Kid’s Section was supervised by a friendly whale who didn’t seem to mind having been captured mid-leap and suspended from a library ceiling. The marine mammal looked like an amiable creature but not one to underestimate, especially as it guarded access to the air conditioning unit.

To the right of the whale was a carpeted reading theatre. The stage was empty on the afternoon of my visit, but it was heartening to see a family gathered around a nearby low table. As a father read a story about pigs to his young daughter, I recalled the wonderful sound of my dad’s voice when he used to read The Little Engine that Could, Green Eggs and Ham, and The Tale of Peter Rabbit. My love of books and libraries started with the precious gift both of my parents gave me, which was taking time to read to me when I was very small.

Before taking leave of High Park Library, I stopped to appreciate a flamingo, a hippo, and a giraffe. The hippo was the most gregarious of the three animals, but I also liked how the bird’s stoicism balanced the quiet optimism of the giraffe. A gorgeous sun warmed the giraffe’s neck, its rays separate entities in intense orange and yellow. I thought the colorful animal portraits brought a welcome playfulness to this seriously classy historic branch.

About three weeks ago, I took the #83 bus south from Donlands subway station to Jones Library (1962). Even though it was my second visit, the experience was first-time fresh because I noticed so many more details. For example, I’d previously walked right past a wonderful textile art tableau that was displayed behind glass just beside the entrance.

Created by April Quan, the same artist who fashioned the woolen castle at Deer Park branch, the Jones piece also featured a castle but expanded to include a happy reader in a hammock and a studious mechanic. I loved the way the prince seemed to be saying, “Come on out of the book, princess.” The royal couple looked unfazed by the presence of a car instead of a carriage and a hammock instead of a bed piled with mattresses on top of a pea. The path to the castle looked mighty steep, so perhaps they would soon need to give the horse-free carriage a try.

Stone, wood, and sunshine greeted my eyes when I walked through the entrance. With the skylight’s help, the wooden floors glowed, and a stone wall near a large decorative quilt further warmed this small neighbourhood branch. Many patrons were taking advantage of the extensive Chinese collection, which included newspapers and magazines, and the space was lively with exuberant young computer users.

Hanging on the wall above the computers was the gorgeous quilt. A nearby notice explained that it was a Victorian Crazy Quilt which had been completed in six sessions earlier this year by “volunteer quilters under the direction of textile artist Sandra Reford.” The results of their artistic collaboration really impressed and delighted me. I loved how the quilt hummed and vibrated with colour. I could have studied it for hours and found new patterns and pictures, but the following images immediately jumped out: planets, suns, beach balls, tents, flowers, teddy bears, a pineapple, and an elephant. Like a collage, the crazy quilt unified all these disparate elements into one coherent whole.

For a branch with only 3,636 square feet of floor space, there was a lot to see at Jones. Around the corner from the quilt was a wooden puppet theatre with a black velvet curtain. Leafy boughs filled the windows facing Dundas Street East, and original art decorated the walls above the children’s bookshelves. My favourite was Shazina’s heart-centred LOVE painting. Thick green and yellow letters spelled the most important word of all.

I had a few requests to post a eulogy that I gave in Kansas City last Saturday. The meadow picture below was projected on a screen as I gave a short talk in honour of my childhood friend, Jenny Smith Carr. I found the Swiss meadow image in the Picture Collection of the Toronto Public Library, but there wasn’t any reference to the photographer who took this calendar photograph. The text of the eulogy follows the picture.

Jenny’s Purple Meadow

A few months ago Jenny asked me if the news of her cancer diagnosis had made me think about my own mortality. I said, “Sure it does. You’re a part of me.” She’ll always be a part of me, a precious patch of Jenny-ness that inspires and sustains me.

When I visualize the color and texture of this Jenny-patch in my soul, I see a set of translucent paddles in primary colors. Jenny is the red paddle. I’m the blue paddle. And the purple place where we overlap is the part of Jenny I get to keep, a purple meadow of shared memories, experiences, values, and giggles. Jenny’s meadow is a clearing in my mind, a sunny expanse of wildflowers surrounded by an ancient forest.

My hope for all of us who were blessed to love our Jenny is to frequently visit our clearings, for they are sacred sites of Jenny-ness that death cannot destroy. This afternoon, I’m taking you with me to Jenny’s purple meadow, where stories flower beside a purple stream, among clumps of irises and daisies, and in the hollows of warm stones.

Take this wildflower over here. It’s a story set in the late nineteen seventies. Jenny and I are trick-or-treating along Mill Street in Liberty. As radical young questioners of gender roles, we have disguised ourselves as housewives. We have put pink curlers in our hair and wrapped ourselves in padded polyester bathrobes. Fuzzy slippers pull the satirical outfit together. At one fateful house on Mill Street, the woman who answers our knock is dressed exactly like us, down to the last curler. She gives us a few pieces of candy but no compliments on our cute costumes.

Many of my Jenny memories come from Camp Oakledge in Warsaw, Missouri. I was very lucky to spend two summers sharing a canvas tent on a wooden platform with Jenny and other fellow Girl Scouts. One afternoon, Jenny and I canoed about three miles across the Lake of the Ozarks to a hamburger shack perched on a dock. I still remember how good that burger tasted because we had powered ourselves across the waters, earning our lunch with our oars.

In February of 1982, Jenny and I went on a winter campout in Dearborn, Missouri. We shivered together in a tent that we had placed on the slope of a hill. When the leaders of the campout organized a midnight hike, Jenny opted to stay in the tent, but I went out. We walked to the edge of a clearing in the woods and drank in a breathtaking bowl-shaped meadow all blanketed with deep snow. The dark ring of trees circling all that open space was a visual prayer. When I think of Jenny, I remember this winter meadow. Like her, it is spiritually refreshing and elegant.

The intense starry sky of the night hike also reminds me of a more recent night. A couple of Thursdays ago, a group of Jenny’s close friends made a plan to look at the sky together at 10 pm (eastern time) and send out beams of love to our dying friend. Wind chimes, lightning, singing locusts, clear skies and cloudy ones greeted us from Arizona, Missouri, Ohio, Connecticut, and Ontario. I thought of how much I love Jenny and cried when I remembered her blog entry about the pain of the biopsy needles.

She’s beyond the needles now, beyond pain, beyond fear. She’s a gorgeous bird of paradise. She’s the drops of rain that bless us. And she’s in every compassionate thing we do. Her purple meadow is alive with sensitivity, laughter, and thousands of kind words. We protect it when we share stories of our beautiful Jenny.