Author: catheraine

I’m journalling 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 ideal combination of austerity and artistic style, placing it on a par with Gerrard/Ashdale and Main Street‘s dramatic attics.

A simple hearth lies a few yards in front of me under a sloping eave. Above the carved wooden mantle is a quilted runner that celebrates Runnymede’s postage stamp stardom in 1989.

An image of the grey stone building anchors the centre of the runner, and the inner panels are framed by the famous totem poles that flank the library’s actual entrance.

I’d like to see the room on the north side of the attic, but the door is closed and I can hear the murmur of a meeting in progress. I decide to return later and explore the rest of the library in the meantime.

As I descend to the main level from the gallery, I enjoy 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 on the north side of the main floor. The bench fronts a very tall window with dignified dark-brown frames that harmonize with Runnymede’s classy furnishings. These include 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 Rochester’s England, for books at Runnymede are available in Ukrainian, German, Polish, French, and Russian.

Following the row of shelves until the foreign-language books transition into 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 houses.

One section of the south wall has been covered by a floor-to-ceiling sheet of copper with nine square windows cut from it. Near the base of the copper structure is a long sturdy window seat, perfect for leaning against the copper while looking out a window. (Fingerprints on the glass testify to moments of inattention and the desire to be outdoors).

The staff’s private room is near the Children’s area, and four portholes in the office’s Kermit green wall indicate submarine playfulness or possibly mild surveillance.

No librarians are peering through the round windows in a disapproving manner, although some of them might object to a young couple who appear fused together in a studious love-heap. The affectionate pair are huddled on a bench that backs up against the Teen Section’s wide computer table. (In this context, the high portholes in the library remind me of a 19th-century parlour that I once read about. It had a tiny window above the door for parents standing on chairs in the adjacent room to better monitor courting couples).

Shaking off outdated notions of repressed librarians, I return to the upstairs gallery to see if the meeting room across the hall is empty. I find it unoccupied and enjoy a few minutes sitting by the windows. Under the eaves, a piano and puppet theatre wait for the next entertaining yet educational event, and three lovely dormer windows show bare tree branches and a dark blue sky. I feel peaceful here.

Now known as Pape/Danforth, Danforth Library joined the Toronto Public Library family in 1929, one year before Runnymede branch. Together, the price tag of the two libraries came to $100,000.

Pape/Danforth’s distinctive Tudor Revival look was an expression of Chief Librarian George Locke’s desire to re-create a British shop of olden times: “The front facade is decidedly English in character, the lower part being carried out in stone and the upper in half timber work and stucco panels, with projecting bays surmounted by gables” (cited in Margaret Penman’s A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983, page 28).

More than a year before the library officially opened, Dr. Locke spoke to the Toronto Telegram on the topic of new branches: “You cannot make grown people good but you can make them more interesting . . . We are trying to make them more interesting by building libraries” (1 February, 1928). Locke’s comment might suggest that he thought early 20th-century Torontonians were boring. Or perhaps he was simply tired of them complaining so much about the moral dangers posed by fiction in the libraries.

If Locke’s strategy was effective, the number of amusing conversations at Toronto’s cafés and parties should have risen in direct proportion to the growing number of libraries over the past 86 years. With 100 libraries at present, we have absolutely no excuse to be dull!

Although Pape/Danforth must look quite different on the inside than it did in Dr. Locke’s day, I think he would have approved of the rectangular swathes of space and sections of wooden flooring.

While long and narrow, the two floors of the building nevertheless avoided claustrophobic effects. For instance, the lemon yellow walls on the east side of the main floor made the Children’s section seem spacious and elegant.

Tucking a shelf of picture books under a long window seat also saved space, making room for an olive-green cushion shaped like an amoeba. I was also fond of two stuffed dragons who occupied a windowsill each, their green ears peeled for stories about Medieval times.

On the west side of the main floor was a square section of wide-planked flooring that was pleasant to tread upon. Standing on this wooden raft near the computers, I studied some artwork by Otilia Gruneatu Scriuba, who had filled a canvas with centaurs, fire, and athletic male forms. (More of his paintings were on display on the wall beside the landing between the lower and upper floors).

A few paces away from the computers was a reading lounge blessed with a bay window overlooking Pape Avenue. I appreciated the luxurious width and depth of the windowsill; it seemed to be a sill for its own sake, celebrating its intrinsic value instead of being pressed into service as a bench or shelf.

Opposite the bay window, a collection of objects in a built-in shadow box caught my eye. To promote Asian Heritage Month, an artistic hand had arranged bamboo stalks, a red shawl, a glossy necklace, and some books in the display box.

When I walked upstairs, I found another bay window directly above the one on the main level. Its sill was also very generous. In fact, it was so inviting that one reader was resting her feet on it. I worried that she was going to leave footprints on the historic white sill or transfer a brown ring from her travel mug.

Harnessing my disapproval, I shifted the focus to browsing innocent shelves that offered materials in Chinese, Greek, and French. The categories of ESL and Adult Literacy also made a strong showing.

As I walked towards the Quiet Study Room at the back, I noticed a young patron sitting crossed-legged on the sill of a smaller bay window on the south wall. Because no shoes were involved in the pose, this seated tableaux didn’t bother me at all. On the contrary, I liked how she inhabited the space unconventionally, adding visual interest to the room.

I spent a few moments in the restful Study Room with its dove gray walls and dim light. Equipped with a sink and a small wooden puppet theatre, this room held lots of possibilities for coffee-fueled meetings and entertainment for the pre-coffee set.

Before I left Pape/Danforth, I took one final look at this popular and well-utilized branch. A kind employee at the information desk interpreted my gaze as an appeal for information and asked if she could help me. Shaking my head no, I thanked her and descended the artistic stairs with gratitude for her attentiveness. What I really wanted to know, though, was if my visit had made me more interesting!

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 sunlight that filled the interior.

The light illuminated an arresting picture window behind the checkout desk. Its glass was divided into six panes, with each one representing an imaginary world to which books transport us.

As I looked from right to left on the top half of the window, I saw a purple dragon with fire-breath so fierce it crossed into the next panel, 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, 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 west side of Elmbrook Park library was devoted to making young readers feel welcome, as evidenced by a basket of crayons on a table and stuffed animals on a variety of surfaces. On my first visit in 2009, I observed a comfortable chair that 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 that Jack’s family wasn’t stable? I looked around for the cow and some gold coins, but they were gone, presumably bartered for food in these tough economic times.

I liked how Elmbrook Park celebrated creativity by displaying children’s bookmark designs that had won a contest. My favourite one encouraged all of us to “Read to your shoe” (by 8 year-old Grand Award Winner, Annika Quinn, Danforth/Coxwell Branch). Also, a towering collection of box lofts showcased the crafting skills of library staff.

Sunshine, zany paper condos, dinosaurs, and pirates were joined by lively books in French and Chinese, further enhancing the inviting atmosphere of this library on the municipal edge.

A striking building located on Lawrence Avenue East, McGregor Park Library is the second-closest library to my home. I have visited it many times as a regular patron, but in 2010 I returned to view it anew with a blogger’s eye, which is like having a large plastic eyeball on a stick to wave about in a technical manner. This approach to experiencing a library requires activation of detail-noticing antennae and the use of a small notebook. (In 2012, I supplemented my blogger’s toolkit with a digital camera).

Before I entered the building, I spent a few minutes under the “cantilevered pedestrian canopy.” I really like this syllable-rich phrase, which I found in a website devoted to the City of Toronto’s Architecture and Urban Design Awards. In 2005, McGregor Park won Honourable Mention in the category of Building in Context for helping to “heal and mend a heavily stressed swatch of suburban fabric in Scarborough.” Even though I had not realized my sample of suburban fabric was so stressed, I was nevertheless glad for the successful 2004 reconstruction project which fused McGregor Park Library to a local community centre.

Moving from canopy cover into the lobby, I studied a display case to the right of the entrance. A colourful tapestry shouted SPRING in large quilted letters, and a purple and yellow butterfly hovered near some gardening books and a purple bucket. In 2013, inventive artwork by Hunter Glen Junior School children filled the case with ecologically-themed pieces, including a necklace made from soda can tabs.

The seasonal theme continued in the children’s part of the library, where a librarian was helping a group of kids decorate small flowerpots and fill them with real soil and seeds. It was a popular activity, and some kids waited more patiently than others for their gardening materials.

One of the participants even went so far as to abandon the gardening group altogether in favour of running and dancing on the wide window bench that wrapped itself around half of the large room. When I saw the windowseat, I understood the child’s choice. After all, the urge to jump on the bench was not a reflection of the merits of the flowerpot activity but rather a testimony to the irresistible appeal of high wooden expanses.

The adult library patrons lacked flowerpots, but they were equally happy to be in the library. Every last chair was spoken for, and many of the softer ones had been pulled up to the sunny window bench for optimal reading conditions.

The community room was also full on the day of my 2010 visit. A film was in progress there as a supplement to the afternoon’s program: “The Aftermath of the Philippine Elections: Fiesta or Blues.” The Filipino connection to the local demographic was also reflected in the multilingual section, which offered Taglog as well as Tamil and Chinese.

After studying the beautiful scripts on the multilingual shelves, I looked up at the ceiling. I liked how it was higher and wider on the west side of the building, taking advantage of all the light pouring in from the walls of windows.

The overhead space narrowed and lowered on the east side, sheltering the bookcases and tables there. The effect of the tapered ceiling was like being in the back of a scholarly cave, away from the wide sunny mouth of the opening. (For better or worse, this is the kind of analogy that flourishes under the blogger’s eye treatment).

As I advanced to the exit after my detail-finding mission, I silently thanked McGregor Park for its provision of shelter, seeds, sunlight, and ecological awareness.

It was raining heavily when I drove into Albert Campbell’s lot on a Saturday morning in 2010. I paused to listen to the rain on the car roof for several minutes while enjoying the view of an empty field bordered by trees. Then I made a mad wet scurry to the lower back entrance and briefly investigated the basement level. There, I discovered an auditorium humming in dimly-lit calm and a yoga teacher demonstrating a series of shoulder stretches.

Lowering my shoulders in sympathy, I returned to the lobby, which was papered with community information leaflets. Services included a team of Library Settlement Workers sponsored by CICS who offered assistance in Bengali, Chinese, Tamil, and Urdu. These four languages were also represented in the multilingual collection, in addition to Greek, Italian, Kurdish, Persian, Spanish, Hindi, and Tagalog.

When I walked upstairs to the main lobby, a treasure trove of used books greeted me on two tables. By the time I finished my eager rummaging, I’d scored fourteen ESL and Adult Literacy books to give to my students. What a jackpot!

Toting my selections, I spent about ten minutes admiring them on a  wonderfully fuzzy window bench. I liked how my latest reading perch was covered in tan carpet and enlivened by four potted plants.

As I further reacquainted myself with this branch, I remembered why I had been so taken with it the first time. Albert Campbell is like a giant educational 1970’s rumpus room with plenty of barrel and square shapes to add visual interest.

Increasing the playfulness, a Lego effect was created by two sets of exposed staircases leading to the children’s section on an upper level platform. The east and west sides of the platform had rounded tan carpeted ledges from which to observe the activity on the main floor. Too bad there weren’t any massive carpeted slides!

Unable to slide back down to the main level, I contented myself with looking over the west side of the platform. From this vantage point, I beheld a pod of silent study carrels, tall shelves, and the crowns of patrons working at a double row of computers. I couldn’t see the Learning Centre, but I knew it was there directly below the platform.

Then I crossed to the east side and noted the coat-hooks considerately placed at child-height on the inner side of the ledge. As I leaned against it, the check-out desk and newspaper lounge with its carpeted window perch came into view.

I found the decorations at Albert Campbell folksy and fun, from a random triceratops on a shelf to the fanciful paper creations by Nan Unsworth. Five of Unsworth’s paper renditions of characters from The Wizard of Oz stood tall on top of a long bookshelf in the children’s section.

On the north wall hung an enormous zodiac tapestry with paper images of fish, a ram, a crab, scales, and other symbols. (The archer looked a little dusty, but he was quite high up and difficult to reach with a cloth).

Not far from the Wizard of Oz party, someone had propped four paper masks on top of individual high shelves. Their stern expressions seemed to say, “You’d better behave or I’ll rustle my papery beak at you!”

After taking a few photos of the masks, I trotted down the east stairs. Then I settled into a private study carrel and constructed a personal study island with my bag of books, DVD’s, phone, and bottle of correction fluid. As I wrote in my journal, I could hear the tapping of keyboards, pages rustling, and the patient voice of a nearby math tutor three carrels to my right. It was the perfect place to be on a rainy Saturday morning.

When I finally left Albert Campbell several hours after arrival, the rain had stopped. The sloping garden outside the main entrance looked refreshed from its shower, and I returned to the car with visions of dewy irises dancing in my head.

Bendale Library sits by itself on a little grassy rise from which it serves residents near the intersection of Danforth Road and Lawrence Avenue East. Upon arrival, I noticed how the library’s trees and lawn resembled those of the suburban houses across the road.

I liked the multilingual welcome sign in the lobby, and I felt extra welcome when the branch head sprang up to greet me after I gave my name at the front desk. She said, “It’s you!” (It made me happy that she had read my blog).

Located to the right of the hospitable main desk, the children’s section contained a reading bench tucked into an unobtrusive spot. One mother was asking a librarian about good children’s books, and she received some suggestions as well as sincere encouragement to read to her child every day.

A few steps away from the children’s area, multiple reading opportunities presented themselves in Tamil, Gujurati, Polish, Tagalog, and Chinese. (Hindi DVD’s were available, too).

Walking towards the opposite end of the room, I saw shelves of fiction, a circle of armchairs, teen materials, large CD carrels, computers, and non-fiction. I also noticed a lady sitting at a card table covered by an Indian paisley textile and a sign that advertised free settlement services. The woman had a cup of tea, a laptop, and a friendly expression.

Two lively sisters were playing hide and seek among the shelves beside the settlement table. When they caught glimpses of each other between gaps in the books, some shrieks came out.

After my survey of Bendale’s main floor, I happily seated myself in its most northwesterly corner. As dusk dimmed a blustery grey afternoon, it was fun to inhabit a table with a view of swaying trees outside.

From my corner, I could hear the hum of activity coming from the entire branch: receipts chugging out of the printer, a mom trying to catch her exuberant toddler, the light thud of books being re-shelved, and the murmur of librarians. As the sky darkened, the tables behind me started filling up.

Leaving my peaceful corner, I bought a couple of old Architectural Digest magazines and went into the lobby. I heard voices downstairs, so I descended a curving staircase and discovered a huge meeting room below. Several groups of young patrons were doing their schoolwork, and I silently applauded them with “That’s the spirit!”

Their hardworking example continued to cheer me as I exchanged Bendale Library’s scholarly warmth for the chilly November twilight outside.

Fairview Library resembles other concrete-heavy TPL branches built in the 1970’s, such as York Woods (1970), Albert Campbell (1971), and Albion (1973). While some people might shy away from Brutalist architecture, I really enjoy the solid unpretentiousness of Fairview’s interior. Being in this branch felt like sailing on the deck of a freighter ship, its hold packed with international literary cargo.

It could be my Midwestern sensibility that finds beauty in Fairview’s jolie laide building. If Carl Sandburg were alive, I think he would write a poem about it. And if he didn’t feel like doing that, he could marvel at the range of languages represented at the library: Arabic, Armenian, Chinese, French, Gujarati, Korean, Persian, Romanian, Russian, Spanish, Tagalog, Tamil, Turkish, and Urdu.

On my first trip to Fairview, its vibrancy was apparent right away. Every chair was taken, every table space utilized, its two levels humming with life: study groups, individuals in private study rooms, newspaper readers, and family groups. I felt inspired by so many patrons acting upon their dreams.

When I returned to the branch in 2012 to take pictures, I was lucky to find one of the ten individual study rooms free. I loved these pockets of serenity in an older district branch under pressure from so much enthusiastic use.

As I walked by the occupied study rooms, I noticed how each inhabitant took full physical ownership of his or her haven. Positive possessiveness radiated in the air inside the glass doors (and a few feet outside of them). Bent over their work, the scholars’ body language declared: “This quiet cell is mine and I’ve earned it!” There was no need for Do Not Disturb signs, for such private intensity deserves automatic respect.

After admiring the work ethic of the study booth residents, I raised my eyes to Fairview’s immense ceiling. I liked how the exposed ducts added active interest and grubby industrial chic to the library’s atmosphere. They presided over the plants, patrons, and shelves with matter-of-fact grandeur.

Sheltering in the northeast corner of the building was Noah’s Ark II. As I approached the ark to take its picture, I could hear some voices coming from the interior of the boat. I couldn’t see anybody at first, but when I got close to the animal portraits, I discovered two teenagers scrunched up together against the hull working on a school assignment. (It was really clever of Noah to stock his ark with flirtatious teens).

Not far from the ark, I spied some colourful books about Chinese New Year and hurried to check them out so I wouldn’t be late for my class. The disembodied hand on the Express Check-Out screen helpfully pointed me towards the world outside this weighty fortress of learning.

Upon first glimpse of Richview Library, I noticed stone benches among the greenery and and some 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 at other branches. Urdu, Ukrainian, Spanish, Russian, and Croatian were also contenders, accompanied by a huge ESL section.

Not to be outdone by so much linguistic abundance, the Romance collection was burgeoning 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 coffee mugs soon to be swept from the tycoon’s desktop).

None of the romance novels had “Local History Room” in their titles, and the no-nonsense research room upstairs seemed to confirm an unromantic vibe. 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 dark lines to Morrisseau’s shoulders and a 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. (Richview’s gallery has even more layers of significance for me now because it was the site of my first public art exhibit, Maps of Loss: Rivers, Ruins, and Grief).

Near the gallery was a large computer lab next to an enclosed Quiet Study Area (both completely full on my 2009 visit). I felt uplifted by Ku’s story as well as by the concentrated Saturday studiousness in the three rooms. The gallery, lab, and study area all embodied 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 of the Children’s section 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 amphitheatre 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 transport us through the vehicle of stories!

In 2012, I returned to Richview Library to take some photographs and discovered a very different branch thanks to a 2010 renovation that brightened the main level considerably.

The 2012 visit yielded another new discovery, a blissful expanse of sun-drenched windowsills on the second floor. Even though a patron blocked my view of the sill at first, I really liked how he rested his newspaper in a pool of sunlight as he read from a standing position, converting this warm ledge into a desk.

When I concluded my second trip to Richview, I left the branch with even more admiration for its artistic encouragement, adaptability, and most of all its rich new perspectives!

Constructed with $10,000 magical dollars from a Carnegie grant, Weston Library belongs in a fairy tale from the last century. Flower boxes, stones, and vines on a trellis set the stage for enchantment, and the spell remained once I ventured inside the old section of the library. Its simple elegance gave me a spiritual lift.

I loved how the dignified plainness of the original brick walls allowed the stained-glass windows to shine all the more brightly. Reflecting a less inclusive canon of literature than today’s, the windowpanes bore shields with the names of dead white British male writers: Wordsworth, Tennyson, Milton, Thomas, Longfellow,  Shakespeare, Ruskin, Chaucer, Addison, Duncan, Havergal, Lamb, Burns, and Dickens (among others).

One window’s shield didn’t have a name underneath it, which gives me hope that it’s reserved for a contemporary feminist of colour such as Nalo Hopkinson, bell hooks, or Alice Walker. This would considerably improve the quality of after-hours debates between the windows’ representatives, especially on the topics of gendered language, the male gaze, and colonial oppression.

While most of the panes offered unobstructed views of the streets outside, one window gave patrons a glimpse of the library’s private office instead. The office was part of an addition to the south side of the building.

Regrettably, this tacked-on addition spoiled the fairy-tale effect for me. After spending exalted moments contemplating the classic if overly-patriarchal 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.

The grapes, doughnuts, and Cadbury fingers on the other side of the glass were arranged in a reasonably artistic manner. However, I didn’t want to disconcert librarians by taking pictures of their snacks, so I moved away from the window to check out the other wing on the main level.

Added in 1981, the newer wing of Weston Library held the ESL, Teens, Spanish, and French collections. After noting the striking architectural contrast between the 1914 and 1981 sections, I went downstairs to the basement level, which contained a spacious Children’s department with murals that covered three walls.

While Shakespeare, Lamb, and Milton kept it old-school upstairs, the pantheon of the downstairs mural included a Wild Thing, Babar the Elephant, Curious George, Peter Rabbit, The Cat in the Hat, and Paddington Bear with a jar of marmalade.

As a way to integrate the early and late 20th century elements of the library, I wished the muralist had been encouraged to match the writers on the windows with the characters in the basement. For example, Chaucer and Burns could be Wild Things, Dickens would make a fine Curious George, and Ruskin could serve as Peter Rabbit.

A second mural showed a variety of outdoor activities in progress that frogs occasionally joined. One frog, however, questioned the merits of hockey.

From murals to stained-glass windows, Weston Library was a delight to visit. It also helped me feel connected to a historical era on the precipice of the first World War. Weston’s square simplicity and window-proclaimed faith in an unchanging British 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 1932 journal entry that compares  Montgomery’s generation to that of her grandparents. The latter inhabited an “apparently changeless world. Nothing was questioned — religion — politics — society . . . And my generation! . . . Everything we once thought immovable wrenched from its pedestal and hurled to ruins . . . (with) nothing (left) but a welter of doubt and confusion and uncertainty” (422-23).

Gazing through windows that have endured for a century, I hope Lucy Maud would be comforted to know that they are still here, even though the view is different.

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Back in 2008, Downsview branch was my 50th library, a large and self-contained building with an enormous main floor and smaller basement level. As I entered the library, my head tilted back to appreciate the wealth of light and space above the shelves. It felt like inhabiting an extraordinarily spacious white tent.

As I paced the aisles, I noticed large Spanish, Italian, and French collections, as well as smaller ones in Gujurati, Hindi, Punjabi, Tamil, Vietnamese, Bengali, and Chinese. A group of teenage boys were playing cards in the magazine section while a much more sedate stuffed parrot supervised a display of books about the outdoors.

In the southwest corner of the main level was the children’s zone. It was defined by a low wall with a special entrance in the form of a tall red cylinder with a circular opening for a gate. Inside the gate, a librarian had posted lots of chicken jokes high on the walls, such as “Why did the turkey cross the road? Answer: To show he wasn’t chicken.”

When I finally returned to Downsview with my camera in 2012, the wall and portal had been removed during a mini-renovation. The chicken jokes were also absent, but the windows shimmered with a springtime scene that had been painted by the library’s youth group.

On my 2008 visit, I had to finish looking at the library quickly because it was almost four o’clock, and there was another branch to see before the Saturday closing time of five o’clock. Picking up the pace, I strode over to the staircase that led to the basement.

Just at the point where the landing curved to meet the first flight of steps, there was an open space between the landing and the set of windows spanning both floors. Two blue butterflies hung from the ceiling of the main floor in this open space, releasing strings that dangled all the way to the basement level. Paper cranes in red, pink, yellow, blue, and green clung to the two long strings, creating an origami cascade down to a book display of summer reading below. (Alas, the cranes were absent in 2012).

The basement level communicated a businesslike tone with its careers section, shelves of adult non-fiction, and extensive ESL and literacy collection. I selected a pronunciation book for one of my classes and scooted past long rows of dark green bookcases for a quick check-out. Thus endeth my fiftieth library encounter!

At first glance, Malvern Library’s northern flank reminded me of a metal ice-cube tray turned on its side to drain. The silver columns of the portico and triangle above the entrance conveyed a formal geometrical impression, which made the warmth and organic spaciousness of the interior all the more appealing. It felt like stepping into a scholarly chalet!

To support the chalet’s ceiling, long planks fanned out from stone pillars, combining strength with artistic flair. Tilting my head to study the structure, I pictured it as the skeleton of an upended ark-in-progress. However, I lowered my chin and walked forward when I realized my stationary reverie was impeding browsers.

Below the ark, a fleet of windows summoned sunlight that nourished patrons and potted palms alike. I also loved the flowing patterns of light that draped the interior.

As I wove between the aisles, I saw shelves of books in Urdu, Tamil, Hindi, Tagalog, Punjabi, Gujurati, and Chinese. I also noticed a three-dimensional castle puzzle on top of a bookshelf in the children’s section.

Near the castle puzzle was a much larger one that welcomed youngsters on noble quests to repel boredom. Portals were provided for these studious knights and ladies to crawl through and discover reading perches to commandeer. Indeed, relaxing with a book in a turret is ideal for recharging before the next joust or feast.

Imaginative perching options also abounded beyond the castle. Malvern patrons of all ages could loll on window seats or curl up in a black cat armchair, complete with pointed ears and green eyes.

Malvern Library, your charming facility was so much fun to experience as I walked through all its sections! Thank you for cultivating a playful habitat where diversity, education, and imagination thrive.

On a 2012 outing to Saint Lawrence Library, I found the entrance after navigating two veiled scaffolds. The labyrinthine construction path ultimately led to a cool marble sanctuary that seemed far removed from the traffic and crowds on Front Street East.

Five gray pillars on beige marble bases held up the ceiling of the library’s one long room. Four of the pillars were bare, but the fifth one was partly covered with flip-chart paper on which someone had drawn Egyptian hieroglyphics: owls, snakes, herons, and ankh symbols. (The hieroglyphics were present on my first visit in 2008 but not in 2012 or 2016).

In addition to solemn columns, Saint Lawrence offered a small collection of children’s books in French and a local history section. A framed 1867 map showed that nearby streets were present at the birth of Toronto.

Another special feature of Saint Lawrence Library was a puppet theatre set into the wall. In 2008, paper flowers and clouds decorated the space around the square opening, along with a smiling sun and a castle (both in felt). In readiness for Jack and the Beanstalk dramas, a felt vine dangled in the air of the performance space. However, eight years later, the puppet decor was noticeably more minimalist.

Like the library’s modest size, the less ornate puppet stage of Saint Lawrence branch in no way limits the scale of its civic contribution to the people of Toronto. Thank you, Saint Lawrence, for your puppets, pillars, puzzles, and public service!

Consisting of one square room in a community centre near Avenue and Wilson, Armour Heights had a warm domestic vibe thanks to its humble size and a brick fireplace on the east wall. (On my second visit in 2012, I noticed the fireplace had been papered over, but it was reassuring to know it still existed).

A low reading bench spanning the length of the fireplace was covered with cushions, teddy bears, and other assorted animals, including Minnie Mouse. Completing the cozy scene was a wooden chest with Bugs Bunny and Porky Pig decals topped by sleeping tigers.

Not far from the tigers, intense sunlight warmed a padded seat set into the middle of the north wall. The opening hours etched on the glass were hyper-illuminated, inviting a chorus of celestial music to celebrate the library. Ah-ah!

The wooden table in front of the window was the perfect place to study a book about cats from the small French collection. Other patrons nearby contentedly tapped on their laptop keyboards.After photographing several French books, I discovered a reading lounge that made for a calm northwest corner, and soon I had travelled the length and width of Armour Height’s compact dimensions.

On the Friday morning of my visit, I was heartened to see large numbers of patrons making themselves at home at this small branch with a big commitment to service. In the corridor outside the library, the notice board was overflowing with news of local events, and a couple of friends swung badminton rackets in anticipation of their next game.

At this community-oriented hub, even the back entrance was animated. Cars drove up and parked momentarily to let passengers scurry in to return their library books. Squirrels rushed around the tree trunks. And the sun continued to bless and brighten this welcoming branch.

Due to its immense scale, I found North York Central Library (1987) to be an entire universe unto itself. Located in the mall next to Mel Lastman Square, the sheer size, complexity, and scope of this branch blew me away. In fact, I felt so overwhelmed by the task of adequately describing all of its 168,022 square feet that I decided to write one post per floor, beginning with the sixth floor and working my way down.

The top floor, also known as the Gladys Allison Canadiana Room, was smaller than the lower levels, creating an aeyrie-like effect as I leaned against a low carpeted wall overlooking the atrium below. Straight in front of me was a mural of a Northern sky that pressed down on mountains of ice. A maple leaf carved into a wooden disk proudly upheld the Canadian theme.

The lofty sixth floor may have represented the firmament of North York Central, but the sky mural wasn’t its absolute limit. A milky-purple galaxy alive with stars glimmered further overhead. I caught my breath when I casually looked up, for I hadn’t been expecting to see anything more infinite than the sky!

Tilting my head towards the galaxy intensified the minor vertigo I was experiencing from my bird’s-eye perch. It made me appreciate the solidness of the structure I was leaning against; the sturdy upholstered wall minimized the sense of floating in the giddy expanse of the atrium.

Dividing North York Central branch into its east and west sides, the central atrium was like a canyon. From my eastern perspective, I could see over the atrium and the open staircases on both sides.

From so high up, the vast complexity of this urban beehive was showcased in a dramatic fashion. Reduced-sized patrons scurried about their scholarly business on multiple floors. A lone man worked at his laptop in the fourth floor’s observation pod. Another person squatted against the carpeted ledge of another tower to answer a cellular summons. And on the first floor of the west side, a round table with radial dividers looked like a package of cheese wedges with miniature lactose-tolerant readers in attendance.

As I gazed for several more minutes, the scene below began to remind me of a massive 1980’s pinball machine. For example, the round observation circles at the edges of the east floors looked like a series of obstacles for a pinball to ricochet around. A thick red column vertically pierced all the circles from the fifth to the second floors, increasing the challenge of the game. Even the staircase on the west side resembled a chute with a round basin at the end to collect lost pinballs.

Wondering what it might be like to rappel from the highest floor to the lobby, I tore myself away from the hypnotic view and walked over to the darkened microfilm room on the north side of the sixth floor. With lights suitably dimmed for the pursuit of past mysteries, this research area featured glossy scanners next to large black computer screens. Genealogical microfilms and old newspapers waited patiently in cabinets.

The remaining section of the Canadiana Room received extra light from east and south-facing windows that offered views of North York’s skyline and Mel Lastman Square respectively. Potted plants soaked up the plentiful rays and made the room a home-like place to pore over documents contained in the North York History Collection.

On a nearby wall was a portrait of Gladys Allison (1901-1979), who served on the North York Library Board from 1951 to 1967. The painting depicted a woman with short silver hair set in gentle waves who was typing in front of well-stocked bookshelves. The majority of the books’ spines were blank, but the portrait-painter did provide some titles, including Tomorrow Will Be Better, Lorna Doon, Miracle of the Breakfast Table, Short History of the English People, and The Works of Shakespeare.

Not far from Gladys’ painting was a gilded oak lion with a pompadour mane and slightly protruding eyes. According to the display information, The Golden Lion of North York was carved by Paul Sheppard, and it used to stand guard over the entrance to a nineteenth-century inn near Sheppard and Yonge, The Golden Lion Hotel.

Paying my respects to the historic lion and its academic pride, I stepped into the elevator and pressed 5, Science and Technology.

On the fifth floor of North York Central, the restful reading space in the side nodule by the red column was the first feature to capture my attention. I especially liked the low spool-shaped coffee tables in this reading area. Their quirkiness contrasted with the sober study booths that lined the north wall, all four of which were inhabited by scholars absorbed in their work.

As I walked around the rest of this floor, I became aware of the eclectic range of topics that fall under the umbrella of Science and Technology. Its magazine collection had everything from Tropical Fish Hobbyist to Spaceflight and Weightwatchers. Interested readers could also opt for books about quantum mechanics, spotted owls, boatbuilding, and tin toys, all without leaving the fifth floor.

A Legal Aid Clinic awaited clients in the southwest corner and a nearby open cabinet contained a CD collection of sound effects. Patrons could choose from the following audio experiences: bullfrog croak, lion roar, echo canyon, sexy laugh, and a “right to remain silent” admonition. For the poetic types, there were steam railway sound effects, terror/mystery noises, and rainshowers.

The last notable item on the fifth level of North York Central Library was a “Beauty and Style” display. In this tall glass cabinet, a variety of beauty aids had been arranged next to book covers propped on stands. An old-fashioned perfume atomizer with a pink tassel rested on the middle shelf near a mousse bottle and a delicate jar of Fendi Eau de Toilette.

I’m not sure what the serious engineering students at nearby tables made of the display of grooming items, but on a more recent visit I noticed that the display’s theme had changed to Canada’s space program.

Leaving the beautifully cosmic environment of Science and Technology for the day, I headed downstairs to Business and Urban Affairs.

A popular floor at North York Central, Business and Urban Affairs was crowded with goal-oriented readers during my 2010 visit. All five private study booths were occupied and each available table was taken.

One group of three patrons was making a day of it in the library. Camped out around a low table in the northwest corner, their writing surface was obscured by water bottles, fruit, croissants, papers, and cell-phones.

None of the window seats at the large tables along the south wall were available, for readers are solar, warmth-seeking creatures like cats and sunflowers. The view of Mel Lastman Square and its skating rink provided additional motivation to secure chairs by the windows.

Notices in both English and Mandarin warned us to “watch our belongings.” The warning wasn’t unnecessarily alarmist; one time I actually heard an intercom announce that a wallet had just been reported stolen.

Focusing on the acquisition of wealth in more legitimate ways, a display on debt management suggested the following books: Tame the Debt Monster, Release from Debtor’s Prison, and Green with Envy: Why Keeping Up with the Joneses is Keeping Us in Debt. I also noticed a catchy title that stood out among other recommended books: How Come THAT Idiot’s Rich and I’m Not?

Wondering if the thief had been caught and then sent home with moral fables to study, I walked to down to the third floor, Society and Recreation.

When I arrived on the third floor, I was immediately drawn to the artwork on the walls near the large Native People’s collection. I especially liked a print by Jamasie near the first study booth on the north wall. My favourite detail of “Camp at Kangiak” was a face peering from the entrance to a tent.

As I walked beside the study cells, booth #5 suddenly became free, and I lit inside without thinking. Primal scholarly instincts had kicked into high gear, for I didn’t want to miss this rare chance to occupy one of the most coveted study spaces in the library.

Settling in more deeply, I placed my backpack and canvas bag on a high wooden shelf. Then I breathed in the pleasure of briefly owning this quiet, private room designed for concentration and productivity.

I reflected that the very name “Study Booth” was an ideal to live up to. If I played games on my phone or painted my nails, it would disrespect a cell devoted to cramming, brainstorming, or crafting compositions. And with the door and its wall made of glass, my study behaviour was also on display as an example to passersby.

After I reluctantly emerged from my booth, I headed over to the large newspaper collection. Over the racks was a prominent sign that showed a pair of scissors imprisoned by a thick red circle and a diagonal slash mark. Brazen article-clippers, Be Ye Warned!

On the alert for naughty scissor-wielders, I descended to the second level, Language and Literature, taking some time to admire the overhead and underfoot views of the library.

When I landed on the second floor, I gravitated towards a display cabinet filled with altered books. Located near the elevators, the exhibit had been created by OCAD students who had taken withdrawn library books (for sale at Book Ends on the Concourse level) and transformed them into art. The display’s centerpiece was a shredded-paper nest from which sprang some colourful paper birds.

My other favourite altered book was “Flipping War” by Christopher Wong. He had chosen a battered paperback copy of The Boat and painted the pages in swashes of blue. Then he had drawn a series of pictures to create an animated story. As I flipped through the pages, I saw a ship and a shark with a saucy smile, a lurking submarine, and a small fish getting chomped by a bigger fish. Some rising jellyfish provided the final act before the words “The End” appeared on the last pages.

In addition to the creatively recycled books, I was also intrigued by two Karen Stoskopf Harding sculptures with their backs to the elevator doors. One was called “Totemic Tribute to Pauline Johnson” (also known as Tekahionwake) and the other “Totemic Tribute to Emily Carr” (or Klee Wyck, “One Who Laughs).

Refreshed by art, I began orbiting the second floor’s outer parameters. In my travels. I came across a language learning lab and a piano practice room ($1 per half hour). The music lesson in progress added a textured dimension of sound that made the space come even more alive.

With piano scales galloping in the background, I investigated the central shelves and their astonishing range and quantity of multilingual materials. For example, the French collection, which included a great number of Livres de Poche, was vast.

North York Central also provided large collections in German, Hindi, Chinese, Korean, Russian, Serbian, Polish, and Persian. Languages with more modest representation included Japanese, Urdu, Vietnamese, Spanish, and Romanian. However, they had been at least been spared the fate of collections transferred to other TPL branches (Arabic, Tamil, Bengali, Greek, Gujurati, Hebrew, and Italian).

Despite sharing a floor with so many glamorous scripts and characters, practical ESL materials had not been neglected. A generous section of the west wall contained plenty of grammar, reading, and test-preparation resources. And a large cabinet was entirely filled with abridged ESL readers, graded by difficulty-level.

Enlivened by art, music, and languages, I let gravity draw me to level one, Circulation, Browsery, and Children’s.

Intense movement and activity characterized North York Central Library’s circulation area when I visited in 2010. Long lines of borrowers resembled busy supermarket queues, and library staff were doing their best to hustle them through the check-out process. At least there were no price checks! (Self-service stations have since reduced the crowding in the entryway).

The restless pace of book borrowing was rendered more frenetic by the overstimulating decor. Bright colours and geometric shapes competed with the press of people and objects, leaving the eye with few places to rest. However, one structure provided a clear visual boundary in a disorienting space. It was a waist-high wall with red tiles.

Shaped like a letter “s” that just kept on curving at the top and bottom, the red wall demarcated where the browsery ended and the Children’s Section began. Continuing the curve where the wall stopped was a red bookcase that also managed to undulate.

Behind the red wall was a yellow castle tower with green eaves and a semi-open roof made of green boards arranged in a radial pattern. A gold ball capped the centre of the castle roof, which was approximately eight feet high.

On the floor near the entrance to the story-castle was a stone sculpture titled “Mother Bear and Cub” by E. B. Cox. This small but solid art object had inspired many young expressive artists, judging by the wild streaks of green, red, burgundy, pink, and turquoise crayon that decorated the stone bears. In my view, the colourful dialogue between sculptor and viewers validated the sculpture and further enhanced its appeal.

When I went to look inside the castle, I was delighted to discover four aquariums on the shelves. These fish tanks had been placed at mid-level on the castle wall, and underneath the shelves were two reading cupboards without doors. With cushions at floor level, the cubby-holes were the perfect size for a parent and child to crawl into and share a story. At the back of the reading nooks were wooden bars that created a non-threatening dungeon effect.

The fanciful tower wasn’t the only story venue at North York Central’s Children’s Section; it also boasted a separate story-room. On the day I visited in 2010, the room was packed with youngsters and their caregivers listening to an animated educator. After she finished her story, she led the audience in a rousing rendition of “I’m a Little Teapot.” Nearby shelves contained more serious fare, such as The House that Crack Built.

On the east wall near the story-room was a striking piece of art carved in the shape of an abstract tree with branches that arched up and out. Created by K. and L. Rix, the sculpture’s branches and leaves contained a vast range of figures from the animal kingdom, fairy-tales, myths, and First Nations and Inuit culture.

It took me at least ten minutes to absorb the riot of images, for they were packed together in such close proximity that they competed for attention. Inhabiting the tree were the following entities: a winged mouse, a dinosaur, a jester, Pegasus, a giant beaver next to a longhouse, a Viking ship, Pan, a snake wearing a hat, a fairy godmother, a canoe, a peacock, a frog, a woodcutter, a yam-child, a warrior, a goddess, some bulls, a cat, and a queen (among others).

If I needed to learn more about frog kings or jesters, I could step right over to the large Children’s Literature Reference Section on the west wall, a category which I hadn’t seen at any other TPL branch (although Lillian H. Smith branch has a Children’s Literature Resource Collection). Equally impressive was a large collection of children’s books in French, German, Hindi, Chinese, Korean, and Russian. A smaller number of materials was also available in Arabic, Persian, Serbian, Japanese, and Spanish.

The final interesting feature on the first floor was a Kid’s Help Desk that combined whimsicality with informativeness. The curved desk was framed by claw-shaped side columns topped by teddy bears. A  moose head loomed over the librarians’ heads, a creature with so much natural authority that no patron would ever venture to comment on his dangle antler-rings or sparkly wreath.

Bidding good-bye to the moose and a monkey clutching a library program guide, I directed my steps to the Concourse Level.

The two major attractions of North York Central’s basement level are Book Ends (a second-hand bookstore) and a spacious Study Hall with a view of Mel Lastman Square’s reflecting pool. The bookstore was closed on my first visit, so I focused my attention on the Study Hall.

Five long tables worthy of feasting Vikings occupied the majority of the hall, and almost every chair was taken. It was fascinating how each student had created a miniature encampment to maintain personal space in a crowded area. For table-territory definition, the scholars had carefully piled up laptops, highlighter pens, bags of crisps, water bottles, dictionaries marked with fluttering sticky tabs, calculators, hefty textbooks, Starbucks cups, take-out boxes, and bottles of skin-cream. The study-forts proclaimed, “Breach these ramparts at your peril!”

More tables lined the tall windows on the south side of the study hall. In addition, individual study carrels, a stage, and a few potted trees dotted the studyscape. One of the plants had been coaxed to sprout a post-it note.

Capping off the room’s amenities, the Marget Canning and Jean Orpwood Adult Literacy Centre and the Talking Books Mobile Outreach Service beamed helpfully from the north wall and east walls respectively. I admired the calligraphy etched on the glass of the Literacy Centre’s windows so much that I was tempted to move some study carrels that were obstructing part of the artwork. However, I contented myself with photographing the visible lettering.

After exiting the east side of North York Central from the first level, I stood in the liminal space of the cavernous atrium. When I looked up, I saw a giant mural on the north wall over the main entrance from the mall. Three horizontal rows of five characters each repeated the letters and characters in different patterns. I recognized a couple of the scripts, but the meaning remained mysterious.

Thanks to the library’s manager, Kim Huntley, I recently learned that calligraphy mural’s design was the work of a distinguished twentieth-century Canadian artist, Harold Town. According to a library information handout, Town “designed it for the exterior of the old Willowdale Library . . . (and) moved to the new Central library in 1987.” The frieze’s panels feature a Scandanavian rune, a Roman A, a Cree letter that resembles a plough, “the Chinese symbol for man, an L from the state of Assam in India, and a Semitic A turned on its side.”

As I gazed at floors one to six in their entirety, I was struck by the layered complexity of the floors with their circular crow’s-nest nodules in the northwest corners, all stacked on top of each other and connected by a thick red column. From my vantage point, I could also see the carpeted sides of the many staircases, all in oatmeal pink. In contrast to the view from the sixth floor looking down, which reminded me of a pin-ball machine, the upward-from-the-concourse perspective felt seriously grand.

Pushing open the south doors that opened onto the square, I reflected that North York Central Library had just my secured my vote for one of the Seven Wonders of the Greater Toronto Area. I looked forward to returning again to explore the remaining six floors in more depth.