Breakfast in Scarborough

When I landed on the second floor, I gravitated towards an “Altered Book Collection” near the elevators. The exhibit was created by OCAD students who had taken withdrawn library books (for sale at Book Ends on the Concourse level) and transformed them into art.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 centerpiece inside the display cabinet was a bird’s nest constructed out of shredded pages. Springing up from the centre of the paper nest were 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, a small fish getting chomped by a bigger fish, and some rising jellyfish providing the final act before the words “The End” appeared.

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). The two pieces complemented each other side by side in their pleasing roundness and faces emerging from the stone.

Turning my attention from the art, I walked around the second floor’s outer parameters. In my travels I came across some unique features: a language learning lab and a piano practice room ($1 per half hour). Hearing a music lesson in progress in the library added a dimension of sound that made the space come alive.

With piano scales galloping in the background, I investigated the central shelves and their astonishing range and volume of multilingual materials. For example, the French collection, which included a great number of Livres de Poche, was vast. Other large collections were in German, Hindi, Chinese, Korean, Russian, Serbian, Polish, and Persian. Japanese, Urdu, Vietnamese, Spanish, and Romanian were more modestly represented. However, they had been spared the fate of books in languages which had been transferred to other TPL branches (Arabic, Tamil, Bengali, Greek, Gujurati, Hebrew, and Italian).

Despite sharing a floor with so many diverse and glamorous tongues, practical ESL materials weren’t forgotten. 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 yet relaxed by art, music, and languages, I let gravity draw me to level one, Circulation, Browsery, and Children’s.

When I arrived on the third floor, I was immediately drawn to the artwork which was part of a large Native People’s collection. I especially liked a stone-cut piece near the first study booth on the north wall. “Camp at Kangiak Jamarie” depicted people bundled up in parkas, a group of tents, a laundry line of drying mukluks, some kayaks, and seals in the water.

As I walked beside the study cells, booth #5 suddenly became available, and I lit inside without thinking. My instincts had responded to a rare opportunity to occupy a coveted piece of library real-estate. Settling in more deeply, I sat down and placed my backpack and canvas bag on a high wooden shelf in a proprietorial manner. Then I breathed in the pleasure of briefly “owning” this quiet, private room designed for concentration and productivity. The very name “Study Booth” was an ideal to live up to. I knew I shouldn’t play games on my cell-phone or take a nap because it would disrespect a chamber devoted to preparing for important exams or crafting compositions. And with the door and its wall made of glass, my study behaviour was also an example to passing scholars.

After I reluctantly emerged from my booth, my last stop on the third floor was the large newspaper collection. A prominent sign showed a large pair of scissors imprisoned by a thick red circle and a diagonal slash mark. Surreptitious article-clippers beware!

Failing to note any naughty scissors at work, I descended to the second level, Language and Literature.

A popular floor at North York Central branch, Business and Urban Affairs was crowded with goal-oriented readers. All five private study booths were occupied and all available tables taken. One trio of patrons were 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.

Notices in both English and Mandarin warned us to “watch our belongings.” The warning wasn’t excessively alarmist; during my visit, I actually heard an announcement over the intercom that a wallet had been reported stolen. On a less serious note, an exhibit of recommended books included the title How Come THAT Idiot’s Rich and I’m Not? Finally, a timely display on debt management suggested reading Tame the Debt Monster, Release from Debtor’s Prison, and Green with Envy: Why Keeping Up with the Joneses is Keeping Us in Debt.

Wondering if the wallet thief had neglected to read the books mentioned above, I walked to down to the third floor, Society and Recreation.

Early yesterday morning I got to talk about my library blog on CBC Radio! I was thrilled and a little nervous, but host Matt Galloway did a great job of putting me at ease. Thank you Matt for an engaging and fun interview!

If anybody would like to hear the interview, please check out http://c-raine.com/catherine-cbc-20100315.mp3.

It’s been a great season for the blog, as there was also an article about it in last Thursday’s Torontoist. Toronto loves its libraries!

The restful reading space in the side nodule by the red column was the first feature to capture my attention on the fifth floor. I especially liked the low spool-shaped coffee tables in this reading area, for they would make great surfaces for squat teapots if tea parties were allowed in the library. The whimsical stools contrasted with the sober study booths that lined the north wall. All four booths were inhabited by scholars absorbed in their work.

As I walked around the rest of this floor, I began to appreciate the eclectic range of topics that came under the umbrella of Science and Technology. Its magazine collection had everything from Tropical Fish Hobbyist to Spaceflight and Weightwatchers. Interested readers could also open books about quantum mechanics, spotted owls and boatbuilding, all without leaving the room. A Legal Aid Clinic awaited clients in the southwest corner, and on a lighter note, a nearby open cabinet contained a CD collection of sound effects. To jazz up patrons’ answering machines, they could choose from the following noises: bullfrog croak, lion roar, echo canyon, sexy laugh, and a “right to remain silent” admonition. For the theatre-lovers, 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 surrounded relevant photocopied book covers propped on stands. An old-fashioned perfume atomizer with a pink tassel rested on the middle shelf near a gold chain, a plain hairdryer, a mousse bottle, and a bottle of Fendi Eau de Toilette. I’m not sure what the serious science and technology students at nearby tables made of this display, but I did notice that nobody was leaping up to join me as a fellow spectator.

Leaving the objects of beauty and style for the day, I headed downstairs to Business and Urban Affairs.

In its immensity and comprehensiveness, North York Central Library (1987) was a universe unto itself. Located in the mall next to Mel Lastman Square, I was blown away by the sheer size, complexity, and scope of this branch. In fact, I felt so overwhelmed by the task of adequately describing all 168,022 square feet of it, I decided 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 preceding levels, creating an aeyrie-like effect. I leaned against a waist-high carpeted wall overlooking the atrium below and studied a sky mural on the west wall at eye-level. The mural’s sky was very Northern, pressing close to mountains of ice. A wooden disk with a carved maple leaf echoed the Canadiana theme.

The lofty Canadiana Room seemed to represent the firmament of North York Central, but the sky mural wasn’t its absolute limit. Painted above my head was a milky-purple galaxy alive with stars. I caught my breath when I casually looked up, for I hadn’t been expecting to see anything more infinite than the sky! My excitability was also heightened by 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 and how it minimized the sense of floating in the wide openness of the atrium.

Dividing North York Central branch into its east and west sides, the central atrium was like a canyon. From my east-side perspective in the Canadiana room, I could see over the atrium and the open staircases on both sides. From so high up, the vastness of this urban beehive of information and human endeavor was tangible. Reduced-sized patrons scurried about their scholarly business on multiple floors. A lone man worked at his laptop in the northwest observation tower of the fourth floor. A chatty person was squatted down against the carpeted ledge of another tower to answer a cell-phone 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 readers in attendance.

As I gazed further, the scene below began to bear resemblance to 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 intersected all the circles from the fifth to the first floors, reinforcing the pinball effect. Even the staircase on the west side resembled a chute with a round basin at the end (rather like those old-fashioned cash registers that spit out change into a shallow bowl). The library could also be described as a giant charity coin contraption like the ones you see in Dairy Queen or Blockbuster. You drop in a donated quarter and watch it spin its way down a complicated series of chutes, drops, and channels.

When I started to wonder if any mountaineers had ever rappelled from the fifth floor to the lobby, I figured it was time to get moving. I stepped away from the hypnotic view and walked around the darkened microfilm room on the north side of the sixth floor, where the low lighting suited 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 this floor received extra light from the south-facing windows that overlooked Mel Lastman Square’s central pool far below. On a nearby wall was a portrait of Gladys Allison (1901-1979), who served on the North York Library Board from 1951 to 1967. Artist Mayc Setchell depicted a sympathetic bespectacled woman with short silver hair set in gentle waves. A seated Gladys and her manual typewriter were positioned in front of bookshelves which filled the entire background of the canvas. The majority of the books’ spines were blank, but Setchell chose to 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 life-size gilded oak lion with a pompadour mane and slightly protruding eyes. According to the display information, The Golden Lion of North York was made by Paul Sheppard, and it used to stand guard over the entrance to a nineteenth-century hotel near Sheppard and Yonge (naturally enough, The Golden Lion Hotel).

Paying my respects to the lion and the North York History Collection, I stepped into the elevator and pressed 5, Science and Technology.

The penultimate Toronto Public Library I called on was one of its smallest: Swansea Memorial. This compact and attractive branch occupies one room on the upper floor of Swansea’s City Hall, where it has resided for fifty-one years. (Previously, it was located in Swansea Public School from 1919 to 1959). With only 1,127 square feet of floor space, what Swansea Memorial lacked in elbow room was made up for in historical flavour. Even its big wooden table had a history. A carpenter named S. Haslam built it in 1926.

I liked the pioneering feel to this venerable library; it evoked the one-room schoolhouses I read about in Little House on the Prairie and Anne of Green Gables. (By the way, L. M. Montgomery actually lived in the village of Swansea from 1935 until her death in 1942, as Mary Henley Rubio details in Lucy Maud Montgomery: The Gift of Wings (446)).

In contrast to the solid, sober table was the tie-dyed kite on the ceiling. This piece of hippy whimsy might have been an attempt to soften the military associations of the library’s name. From a leaflet about Swansea Memorial Library’s history, I learned that credit for its inception belongs to the Women’s Patriotic League of Swansea, who wanted to honour the freshly-returned veterans of the First World War as well as the soldiers who had not survived.

My last act of homage was to study the folksy mural on the outer wall of the library. I loved the lively colours and the way the art piece transformed the interior of an official municipal building into a friendly community space. What an appropriate spot to contemplate my next-to-last TPL branch!

To enter Jane/Dundas Library from the parking lot is to encounter the branch as a visual whole — silver, light, and open. Look down and you can see groups of teens in their study nook below. Look to the right and the entire main level comes into view. Although Jane/Dundas isn’t a huge branch, such is the innovative use of space that it feels bigger than its 11,648 square feet.

A long carpeted ramp leads to the basement level, giving a sense of expansiveness. Further unfolding the feeling of openness is the generous amount of free space overhead as well as the enormous west-facing window.

The library’s spatial openness is matched by linguistic breadth, as evidenced by a large ESL section and materials in French, Chinese, Hindi, Polish, Spanish, and Vietnamese. The narrow aisles of the main level also yield substantial fiction and non-fiction collections.

The downstairs level is equally engaging. It has a quiet study room filled with lovely Saturday self-improvement energy, a beautiful tree in the teen enclave, and a playful set of shelves in the children’s area. These wooden shelves contain an open square which allows young library-users to peer into a storybook-reading zone.

With so many angles, corners, and views, Jane/Dundas is a delightful place to raise your head from a book before burrowing back into study. I’m grateful I got to spend a Saturday afternoon immersed in such an imaginative space!

Finding a parking space on Bloor Street West near Royal York Road was challenging, but my luck changed for the better when I walked into Brentwood Library. By coincidence, that particular Saturday in December just happened to be Christmas Open House day! With an angel-topped tree, carols playing in the background, and cinnamon smells announcing the presence of hot apple cider, Brentwood created a truly festive welcome for its patrons. Transcending a tired attempt to go through the holiday motions, the Open House struck me as genuinely hospitable, especially when one of the librarians stationed herself behind the cookie table to serve the cider personally. Complementing the classic Christmas scene was the 1950′s atmosphere of the branch, which the clock above the hearth exemplified.

Lest this solid 1955 building seem too stodgy, its sunny attic provided a welcome touch of lightness. A very calming, open space, it was the perfect home for the children’s collection. I spent several minutes just enjoying the attic before I walked back downstairs and then down one flight more. As I approached the basement level, several murals painted on the stairway walls caught my eye. The bright colours provided a visual transition into the cozy room which housed the teen section as well as the Polish and French offerings. Selecting a French film and a quilt book, I returned to the cinnamon cheer of the main level for check-out.

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.