Breakfast in Scarborough

In the two and a half years since I last described Northern District branch, there’s been a renovation and the addition of camera skills to my blogging toolkit. I recently added photographs to my initial post and then decided that a new post was needed to show off the changes to the library.

The main differences I noticed were a glass-walled program room (where my friend Ellen and I led a Culture Days program last October), luxurious new study booths in the teens section, a snacking zone, and three beautifully contemplative study rooms.

Two other important changes were the shifting of the children’s section into a different corner of the library and the creation of a spacious reading area in its place.

I liked the way the new reading room seemed to thrust the readers into the heart of Yonge and Eglinton — all the city dynamism without the noise!

The final difference I observed was the presence of a wonderful art display in the upstairs skylight gallery. I really enjoyed looking at Afsaneh Shafai’s work and would encourage readers to go see the exhibit before the end of this month.

Northern District Library, it’s been a pleasure to witness your evolution!

“Jagged Peaks” Collage by Catherine Raine, 2012

“Jagged Peaks” Collage by Catherine Raine, 2012

“Triangle Nest” Collage Shadowbox by Catherine Raine 2012

“Triangle Nest” Collage Shadowbox by Catherine Raine 2012

“Triangle Nest” Collage Shadowbox by Catherine Raine 2012, Back of Box

“Breathe” Textile by Catherine Raine, 2012

“Fire Sprite” Textile Creature by Catherine Raine, 2011

“Fire Sprite” Textile Creature by Catherine Raine, 2011

I was tickled to find out that WordPress does a yearly report. If you have the time and interest to check it out, please click here. The biggest surprise for me was that I have readers from a lot of different countries!

Update: a special reader (my husband Stewart) pointed out that the above link was only available to administrators. Here’s the link’s address: http://jetpack.me/annual-report/12585345/2011/

Hopefully it will work!

I gave away some more collaged bookmarks this week. Here they are! (Materials include stickers, handmade paper, regular paper, and paint pens).

My grandmother Raine gave me this Christmas tree in 2004 when she was 93 years old. She had decided that she no longer felt like putting it up every year, especially after the loss of my father (1995) and my uncle (2004).

I hadn’t decorated a Christmas tree since I was a teenager, but Grandma’s gift inspired me to start again. My mother also gave me some ornaments that have been in the family since the 1960′s. And to accompany the tree into the 21st century, I’ve added some new ornaments, mostly purchased from Ten Thousand Villages in Toronto.

My grandmother was a wonderful quilter, and she made the Christmas tree skirt under the rocking horse, teddy bear, and gingerbread girl.

Also resting on the quilted tree skirt are some of the cookie dough ornaments I remember from my childhood. My mother made some of them, but she recently told me she can’t recall exactly which ones. Regardless, I’m glad to have these reminders of Christmases past when my father, mother, and brother and I used to decorate the tree together (and Birthday the cat used to bat and smash the glass balls on the lower branches).

I’m especially fond of the cracks in this circular face. They testify to the survival of more than thirty holiday seasons.

The small red wagon on the left has a story, too. Mom bought it for me one December in the 1970′s when she took me to see the Wornall House museum in Kansas City in all its Christmas glory.

The tree-topping knitted angel is a new addition, as are most of the ornaments in the pictures which follow. She was made in Bangladesh, which reminds me of my students at the college where I teach English.

Elephants, crescent moons, and Bangladeshi angels mingle with Santa, reindeer, and an apple. They help the tree honor Toronto’s multiculturalism and integrate the Christian traditions of my childhood with the pluralism all around me today.

I hope Grandma Raine would have liked the way I set up her tree. She also supplied me with more festive textiles in the form of two placemats (one green, one red) and a smaller Christmas tree skirt.

Finally, six giant postcards from the 1960′s put the finishing touches on my decorating efforts. I think my parents bought these cards in California when my father was working for Trans World Airlines. My favorite one is the calico cat, and “Dr. O’Brien’s Amazing Powders” is a close second.

Thank you for joining me on this narrative sleigh-ride in time and space! It feels jolly to share Grandma Raine’s tree with you!

The Merril Collection sprang to life in 1970 when Judith Merril, a writer and activist, donated all of her books and magazines related to science fiction to the Toronto Public Library. Formerly called the Spaced Out Library (1970-1991), the Merril Collection now holds more than 73,000 items and “is the foremost North American public assemblage of Speculative, SF and Fantasy Fiction” (Sol Rising, January 2011, page 16).

Judith Merril (1923-1997)

I made my first visit to Judith Merril’s scholarly legacy last week. After I climbed the stairs to the third floor and stepped into planet Merril, I admired the way the shape of the room hugged the curve of Lillian H. Smith Library‘s central atrium.

A few minutes later, I was warmly greeted by Lorna Toolis, Head of the Collection. I’m very grateful to Ms. Toolis, who took me under her exceedingly knowledgeable wing as she walked me through row upon row of reference stacks that are home to an astonishing diversity of items.

To accommodate such a robust archive, the library installed compact shelves which can be manually moved closer together so that aisles between rows of shelving disappear at will. At one point during my visit, another librarian called out a warning when she was about to turn one of the silver wheels to move a shelving unit. (Nobody wants to fatally squash the Collection Head and a library blogger in a Temple of Biblio-Doom scenario).

Standing clear of the moving shelves, Lorna revealed the open secrets of a jaw-dropping collection. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and she explained that she’d loved science fiction ever since grade 3, when she discovered a stack of this genre of books in her grandmother’s attic. A personal collector of science fiction since age fourteen, Lorna’s eminently justifiable pride in the Merril Collection was tangible.

I felt privileged to tour this special place. Along the way, I saw critical works on Batman and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, graphic novels, fanzines, anthologies, comic collections, rare magazines, games, artwork in map drawers, and material about UFO’s. There was even a shelf devoted to alien linguistics, a phrase I’d never heard before.

Little Nemo in Slumberland by Windsor McCay

Part of what made being in the Merril stacks so special was the presence of so many fragile materials that might have disintegrated long ago if it weren’t for the constant temperature of 21 degrees and protective book covers that have prolonged their shelf-life. Lorna explained that most early science fiction books and magazines were printed on cheap paper and designed to be enjoyed and discarded.

Part of the ephemeral world of popular culture in the first half of the 20th century, science fiction publishing wasn’t about leather-bound volumes, gilt pages, and other establishment frills. It didn’t put on literary airs or flounce about the canon with its semi-colons in the air. Instead, science fiction offered sensational art (in both senses of sensational) on the covers and wild times with robots, stolen bodies, flying saucers with eyeballs on the chassis, and an early feminist heroine, the Golden Amazon.

The Central Intelligence by John Russell Fearn (starring the Golden Amazon character) in The Star Complete Novel for Saturday, August 22, 1953

With so much difficult-to-find material, this unique collection is a magnet for international scholars as well as more local researchers, writers (like Margaret Atwood!), professors, artists, illustrators, and students from high school or colleges such as OCAD. Lorna told me that there are patrons who come in to the facility just to read a rare copy of a book that would otherwise fall apart if it were in general circulation.

Near the end of the stacks tour, Lorna led me to a cart loaded with treasures protected by white book folders that fastened with circles of velcro. She carefully unwrapped more than a dozen of them and then ferried these selected materials to the public reading area so I could take photographs of them.

I was interested in everything Lorna showed me, but I think the artwork on the magazines made the biggest impression, especially this rare Amazing Stories edition (Volume 1, #1, April 1926).

The covers of these editions of The Shadow also blew me away. When Lorna asked me which ones I wanted to photograph, I felt compelled to reply, “All of them!”

As I was introduced to titles like Flying Saucer Rock and Roll and Dictatorship of the Dove, I gained a new appreciation for the unbridled creativity displayed by the genres of the Merril Collection.

In addition, I loved how the Merril’s 19th century material enriched my understanding of literary history. For example, May Agnes Fleming’s The Baronet’s Bride “is retained as an example of early gothic melodrama, without fantasy elements, to assist researchers in the development of gothic fiction. . . . It was serialized in Saturday Night, beginning on 3 October 1868 and ran for thirteen weeks before being published in book form as The Baronet’s Bride or A Woman’s Vengeance” (e-mail from Lorna Toolis, 11/17/11).

Vampire researchers also have plenty of material in the Merril Collection to animate them, including the first serialized vampire story in North America (1875) and a first edition of Dracula (1897) in its plasma-curdling yellow cover.

Moving on to 20th century materials, I was charmed by this Armed Services edition copy of H. P. Lovecraft‘s The Dunwich Horror, specially designed to fit in a soldier’s knapsack and provide mental escape from the real-life horrors unfolding around him.

Finally, bringing images of horror, speculation, and fantasy to our doors in the 21st  century, reading materials such as Sci Fi and Realms of Fantasy (among many others) are available in the reading area.

Near the end of my tour, I signed the most imaginative guest book I’ve ever seen, which was hand-crafted by Toronto artist Robert Wu and donated by The Friends of the Merril Collection.

For me, Wu’s art represents the lunar mystery of imagination, something which the Merril Collection celebrates and preserves. Even if you previously scoffed at science fiction, speculation or fantasy, this is a highly persuasive collection that might just change your mind!

Last week, I listened to the personal testimony of Holocaust survivor Denise Hans at North York Central Library. A very large group of teenagers and adults filled the library auditorium, creating an audience five times the size of the Holocaust Education Week programs I’ve previously attended at Deer Park, Mount Pleasant, and High Park.

The speaker explained that she started giving these talks four years ago. “I do it to pay homage to my mother. Without her, I wouldn’t be here with you today.”

I’m grateful to Ms. Hans for gathering the profound courage necessary to share such a painful story with strangers. It’s one thing to read the following sentence in the program booklet for the 31st Holocaust Education Week: “In 1942, after (Denise’s) father, aunt, and uncle were taken from her home and murdered, her mother sought places to hide her six children and two nieces” (page 26). It’s quite another experience to listen to the story in person.

In addition to her animated voice and the range of expressions on her kind face, the memories of Denise Hans’ early life really made her narrative come alive in my mind. The fourth of six children, Ms. Hans was born in Paris in 1938. To this day, she remembers the colourful visors her mother used to sew on the brims of hats. She remembers her father’s delivery tricycle with its large box in the front (into which he’d put a couple of his children on Sundays and take them on an exciting ride around Paris). She remembers her regret over teasing her six year-old brother for having to wear the yellow star of David when she was too young to wear one. And she still remembers the first cries of her baby sister, Monique (who was born at home because Jews were barred from the hospital), even though Denise was only three and a half at the time.

The speaker also recalled the grit and bravery of her mother when her father was taken to a holding camp. She managed to get a pass for her husband to visit home by setting her crying baby on a Gestapo officer’s desk and saying, “If you can’t let my husband out to support his family, then you take care of the baby.” The officer’s face became redder and redder as the baby’s howls set off a chain reaction of crying among her older siblings. “You can’t imagine what a huge noise and hullabaloo we made!” said Denise. The officer quickly wrote the pass and sent them on their way.

When Denise’s father returned home, the children had to pretend he was a family friend. It was hard to remember not to call him affectionate names and address him as Monsieur instead. By this time, Denise’s aunt, uncle, and two cousins were living in the house, too. They planned to use the secret entrance to the attic and hide there in case they heard a knock at the door that wasn’t the agreed upon knock. However, when the dreaded home invasion came in 1942, there was no time to hide four adults and eight children. A Nazi took all the adults except Denise’s mother away to the police station. They were never seen again.

Denise’s voice shook when she said, “I was only four years old when my father was taken. Do you know that I can still remember every line on the Nazi’s face, but I can’t picture my father’s face?” And the sadness she felt for her mother, who lost her closest family members in a single day, was present in the speaker’s voice as well.

After the murder of Denise’s father, aunt, and uncle, her mother was the sole comforter and provider for eight children. She was only in her early 30′s. At night, the four youngest children were very frightened, so they crawled into bed with their surviving parent, each one claiming a maternal limb to hug all night long. Denise said, “The right leg was mine. I remember pressing my cheek against it for warmth. Everybody was so busy during the day that there was no time for hugs and kisses for the children.”

Soon, Denise’s mother realized that she needed to find a hiding place for all the youngsters in her care, and the first of three eventual locations she secured was at a farm house in the country. Sadly, the farmer’s wife wasn’t kind to the eight children she hid. She cut off Monique’s beautiful blond curls because she falsely assumed she had lice, and worst of all, she didn’t give the children enough food. Denise’s mother realized her children were starving after she arranged to have her youngest child visit her briefly in Paris. She gave the little girl some hot chocolate and cookies, and when a few crumbs fell to the floor, the child got down on her hands and knees and licked up the crumbs.

A new hiding place at a second farm was found, this time with a more congenial family. However, the children had to be split up, and another big disadvantage for Denise was that she was appointed the daily task of scratching the legs of the new family’s teenaged daughter, who suffered from a skin disease. “It was a disgusting job, I tell you.”

A Sisters of Zion convent was the last war-time shelter Denise’s mother found for her. By this time, the Nazis were having trouble fulfilling their quotas of Jews to fill the death camps because they had already rounded up so many. (One shocking historical fact that I hadn’t known before was that the Vichy government made a deal with the Nazis that they would allow them to take the Jews of the unoccupied Free Zone of France in exchange for not bombing the monuments of Paris).

For extra safety, Denise’s mother requested that the children be baptized. The Sisters took all six girls, and the boys were sent to an equivalent Catholic institution. “The Sisters were strict, but I enjoyed my time in the convent. I loved the pageantry of the masses, and I enjoyed Christmas and Easter.”

In 1948, “les trois petites” (the three youngest girls, including Denise) were finally re-united with their mother. The older five children had returned earlier because it was difficult to support all eight right away at the end of the war. “One day, the Sisters summoned us and said that we were going home because we had a new father. A new father? We were really surprised, but in those days children didn’t ask questions.”

Determined to remove Christian symbols from his home and his step-children’s minds, Denise’s new parent tore up the “beautiful cards of Jesus that the Sisters gave me,” in an understandable reaction that nevertheless was a big “culture shock” for the ten-year old Denise, who had spent a good portion of her childhood in a convent. “We couldn’t complain, though. We were alive and his children weren’t.” She shared her feelings of regret that she not only lost her father but her mother as well during the war: “I was separated from my mother for six years. I’m still sad about this loss today.” At this point in the narrative, I could hear crying in the audience for the child who had suffered so much grief, deprivation, and terror.

The vast majority of the North York Central crowd listened in respectful silence to Denise’s testimony, but a few small groups of restless students talked and even laughed among themselves at times during the program. It’s possible that they had tuned out because of a language barrier, however, it pained and angered me to hear laughter while a 73 year-old woman was sharing the most excruciating memories of her life. Denise Hans gave us her precious time and words to educate our hearts, and she deserves our infinite respect.

“We are here to learn about the Holocaust and make sure it never happens again,” said Andy Réti to our group of thirty in the program room of High Park Library. Most of the audience were Grade 7 and 8 students plus a smattering of adults.

Born in 1942 on a hospital floor in Budapest, Hungary, Mr. Réti was only two years old when the Nazis forced his family and neighbours from their homes at gunpoint on October 16, 1944. Then they were marched to an empty racetrack, where they spent two days sitting on the cold ground. At one point on the terrifying march, a blanket was thrown on the ground and everybody in the roundup was ordered to put their valuables on it. Andy’s mother Ibolya was determined to protect her wedding ring from these armed thieves, so she quickly hid it in the baby’s diaper. (One of the grade eight students in attendance gave a cheer when she heard this, a heartfelt sound of admiration for the mother’s quick-thinking act of defiance).

After two days, the captives at the racetrack were elated when their captors told them they could return home. Momentary happiness turned to terror, however, when the Nazis opened machine-gun fire on the fleeing crowd. The young Mr. Réti, his mother, and paternal grandmother escaped the attack, only to endure a second roundup the same month (October, 1944).

This time, the Jews of the city were “herded” into what became the Budapest Ghetto. Mr. Réti described how his family had to share an apartment building (capacity, 600) with three thousand people. He lived in a two-room apartment with twenty five others, including five children like himself. His first conscious memory of the Holocaust was the cold sensation of his friend Kati’s feet as they slept head to foot at the bottom of the bed. Andy and Kati’s mother were in the bed, too, and Andy’s grandmother slept on the floor. There were no toys to entertain the children, only stories which were read over and over again.

In December of 1944, the Budapest Ghetto was completely shut off to the world: “Nobody came out except the dead.” Already extremely scarce, food became next to non-existent in the Ghetto. Réti’s grandmother hardly ate at all, saving what little she had for her grandson and daughter-in-law. “By this time, we were hungry all the time. When you’re that hungry, you can’t think about anything else but food.”

Starvation formed the background for Andy’s second conscious Holocaust memory, which was eating a roll of brown bread after the Russians liberated the Ghetto on January 18th, 1945. In later years, his mother wrote a poem about this incident, describing her tears as she begged a Russian soldier for some food for her child.

Mr. Réti never knew his father Zolti, who was conscripted into a Hungarian military labour battalion at the beginning of the war. Initially, it was reported that he died of typhus, but his son never believed this, for Zolti was a tall man and incredibly fit, a strapping swimming instructor. It wasn’t until decades after the war that Andy found out the truth: his father was murdered for having “the audacity to be a Jew.” A relative of Andy’s dad had tried to persuade Zolti to escape the labour battalion, but he didn’t want to risk it for fear of making his beloved wife a widow and his baby boy fatherless. More than six decades after the outrageous crime perpetrated against his father, Andy praised him as a “a martyr for love.”

The triumph of love over evil was Mr. Andy Réti’s central message. He titled his talk “The Ring of Love” and shared with us the profound words of a friend: “Every Holocaust survivor’s story is a love story. It’s a story that celebrates love of life, love of family, and love of freedom.”

Hatred or bitterness never overwhelmed Andy’s testimony, only love and the imperative to be “an upstander instead of a bystander. When you see something wrong, speak up! The Nazis were the biggest bullies in history. How differently would things have turned out if more people had stood up to them?”

Andy Réti’s testimony at High Park Library more than fulfilled the purpose of the 31st Annual Holocaust Education Week, for we gained personal understanding and appreciation of the loving resilience of Andy’s family in the face of brutality. Like the student who said, “Yes!” when she heard the story of the wedding ring hidden in a diaper, I wanted to cheer for Andy, a dynamic individual who Rides (a motorcycle) to Remember and teaches future generations to say, “Never again!”

Never this cruelty, never this monstrous disrespect for life, love, and freedom.

On Monday evening, I attended a reception in honour of Centennial College’s New Library and Academic Building (Progress Campus). I arrived near the end of the three-to-seven reception time, but a couple of punch bowls were still flowing in orange and red.

Soon, the catering staff (who were Centennial hospitality students, I believe) started encouraging everybody in the Commons to finish off the food. One extrovert caterer started hollering, “Come on everybody — grab a napkin and eat up these sandwiches!” He made large crowd-gathering motions with his arms and added, “I don’t want to see any of this food in the trash.” At least a dozen students rushed to his aid, carting off double handfuls of pastry and sandwiches to their tables.

Wanting to do my part, I downed a lemon tart as I took in the busy scene of multiple study groups in the open courtyard. Two floors above us, a row of rooms devoted to communal study could be seen in the library proper: illuminated cross-sections of learning in action.

Much as I enjoyed the bustle of library activity and the sleek new building, the main attraction for me was this living wall. When I first saw it, I just wanted to sit at its roots for a long time.

The sheer wild elegance of an indoor vertical garden bed is a delight in itself, but this gorgeous bio-wall is far more than a decorative feature; it has serious air-filtering work to do. According to a leaflet that a staff member gave me, the wall-plants grow “in a synthetic rooting media . . . . Contaminated room air is drawn through the root zone of the plants, which acts as a biological filter, where pollutants are broken down by microbes into water and carbon dioxide.”

Please join me in celebrating a generous wall that gives back to its community, turning toxins to fresh air! Thank you, bio-wall! You give me hope and encouragement for a better ecological future.

In 1949, an enthusiastic British librarian named Edgar Osborne gave the Toronto Public Library 2,000 British children’s books from his personal collection. Sixty-two years later, The Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books has grown from 2,000 items to over 80,000! Two additional collections, Lillian H. Smith and Canadiana, have augmented Osborne’s initial gift, adding extraordinary depth and breadth to the entire holding.

Inspired by a 1934 visit to the Boys and Girls House, Osborne and his wife Mabel were “deeply impressed by the work and reputation of Lillian H. Smith,” the Children’s Librarian responsible for “the first library exclusively devoted to children in the British Empire” (A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983, pages 59 and 30).

Edgar Osborne (1890-1978)

Nowadays, The Osborne Collection is used and appreciated by writers, illustrators, book historians, social historians, archivists, bloggers, teachers, librarians, graduate students, secondary school students, and younger children. In addition, tourists from as far away as Scotland and Japan have visited the Collection. J. K. Rowling‘s flowing scrawl appears in the archive’s visitor book above a lively sketch of a tall witch hat. The signature of the Empress of Japan is also in the book: three elegant characters written vertically in the exact centre of the page.

Celebrity sightings are exciting, but the wonderful thing about the Osborne Collection is that you don’t need to be the creator of Harry Potter‘s empire or an actual empress to enjoy it. “Mr. Osborne could have easily given his collection to a university, but he chose to make it accessible the public,” said Dr. Leslie McGrath, the erudite and welcoming librarian who serves as the Head of the Osborne Collection.

Dr. McGrath graciously asked me what I’d like to see when I visited the fourth floor on Friday afternoon, joining the ranks of thousands of ordinary Torontonians who have benefited from Osborne’s generosity and foresight. Responding to interest in volumes I’d loved as a child, Leslie unfurled two golden velvet cloths and set the table with a feast of original editions of Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

The Pop-Up Secret Garden

Paper Doll of Colin

It was thrilling to see these volumes surface from previous centuries and land intact on a table in the Collection’s research room. And the treasures in Leslie’s cart just kept pouring out: original letters from L.M. Montgomery to Anne’s fans, a 600-year-old volume of Aesop‘s fables (its animal-skin pages still crackling), a tiny Bible and Koran, a woodcut for creating book illustrations, a Mesopotamian cuneiform clay tablet, and 18th and early 19th Century hornbooks. The latter consisted of framed squares of text “laminated” with a slice of sheep’s horn, and they served as hand-held tools for learning the alphabet, phonics, and important prayers. One of the hornbooks in the Osborne Collection had a small cross in the upper left-hand corner, a reminder to cross one’s self before the act of reading (like saying grace before a meal or proclaiming Bismallah — in the name of God).

Leslie also showed me a fascinating board game called Paths of Life. Created by one J. H. Cotterell in 1840, the edifying game takes players on a Pilgrim’s Progress-style journey through life’s moral ups and downs. From the illustrated map of the Path, we can discern that it’s a steep fall from Manly Hill to Contrition Vale, but it’s not nearly so far as the abject distance from the Bottomless Pit back up to Mount Recovery.

Depending on which number a player twirls on a dreidel-like game piece, he or she can visit Careless County (of Trouble District) or rest beside a Cheering Spring in Discreet County. For me, the Sites of Unrighteousness were the most entertaining: Cursing Corner, Revel Gully, Shame Pitch, Horror Bog, Indulgent Slope, Don’t Care Gap, Remorse Hedge, and No Friend Shed.

I was enchanted by the literary riches Leslie carted to the study area and equally delighted by the exhibit “Peter Pan, Pirates, Mermaids and Fairies” in the reception room. Filling the many display cases were penny dreadfuls, Victorian and Edwardian book covers, pop-up books, antique trading cards, and gorgeous illustrations from olden and modern times. There was even a knitted mermaid and a ship in a bottle!

(Why so pensive, pirate?)

The imaginative Peter Pan, Pirates, Mermaids, and Fairies exhibit runs until December 3rd and is free to the public. However, the upkeep of The Osborne Collection requires more than fairy dust and wishes upon a star. To ensure that this priceless archive has enough funding to continue and thrive, an organization (aptly) named The Friends of the Osborne and Lillian H. Smith Collections helps raise money by selling items such as these cards that depict An Anciente Mappe of Fairyland and Edwardian bookshelves.

In my view, the Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books does not reside on an Indulgent Slope of Frivolity. On the contrary, it is a Courteous Oasis of International and Canadian Civilization, a repository of our literary history and a precious material link to the past. The Collection is the unique place where I shared Anne of Green Gables with an unknown a reader who lived four generations ago. This is the kind of historical connection that an electronic book can not kindle!

In my previous post about Lillian H. Smith branch, I wrote that “a griffin‘s traditional role has been to defend treasure from marauders.” However, the guardians at the front door need our help to protect treasures like the Osborne Collection, for griffins do not sit on budgetary committees. It is up to us to nourish the vision of two extraordinary librarians: Lillian H. Smith and Edgar Osborne. We can do this by joining the Friends of the Osborne and Lillian H. Smith Collections or just dropping by the fourth floor for a visit!

“Roll Me to the Moon” by Catherine Raine, 2011

“Protest Dance” by Catherine Raine, 2011

I was taking a walk down an alley near Dovercourt and Bloor when this ruined church happened upon me. Both imposing and sad, the ruin really affected me and I vowed to return and photograph it.

Last Friday, I revisited the site and first took some pictures of the back of the building. These are the west and north walls as viewed from the alley.

Then I walked from the alley to Westmoreland Avenue to see the front of the church. I wondered what had happened to turn this lovely edifice, surrounded by reasonably prosperous rows of houses, into a ruin.

When I looked carefully at the carved words next to one of two doors on the east wall, I could make out “Saint Mary the Virgin.”

And when I studied the other door, I read these words penned by a giant black Sharpie: “Jesus has left the building. You are on your own now. Good luck.”

For me, the chain on the door was sadder than the building’s graffiti epitaph.

If you like your libraries playfully Gothic and radiating imagination, then Lillian H. Smith is definitely the branch for you! When you pass between the wingéd lion and the griffin, it’s like stepping into a book illustration which has come to life.

Gargoyles on the exterior set the tone for the Lillian H. Smith experience. In keeping with the library’s history as a child-centered institution, the wall-creatures are striking yet non-threatening images of owls and a sheep. (Ms. Smith was a pioneering force in TPL’s history as the “first head of children’s services, 1912-1952″ and “the first trained children’s librarian in the British Empire” as noted by Margaret Penman’s A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983, page 30).

Admittedly, the griffin’s beak has a certain in-your-face attitude, but its fierce nature helps it protect baby foxes and owls. A griffins’ traditional role has been to defend treasure from marauders, which is something you don’t do with a cheesy grin.

Equally protective, the lion sculpture is a shelter for a salamander and a small primate.

To honour the two stone beasts sculpted by Ludzer Vendermolen (creator of Wordsworth the owl for Beaches Library), someone had carefully placed a nut between the central talons of their powerful feet. Not to diminish the nutritional power of the nut, but it seems a mighty dainty snack for a lion and a griffin. Offering some beef hotdogs from a nearby cart might work better.

When I entered the well-guarded library, four circular tiers soared above me in a rising barrel pattern. Enjoying the atrium despite some slight vertigo, I walked up to the fourth floor, which was home to the extraordinary Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books. It only took a few minutes of wandering around the collection to realize that I would need to devote a special blog post to it, for I was overwhelmed by so much rich material. I’d also like to give The Merril Collection of Science Fiction, Speculation, and Fantasy its own post, too.

Dropping down to the second floor (the Merril Collection and a computer lab occupy the third), I found a densely-populated library space. Every single table was spoken for, and inquisitive patrons crowded round the information desk with questions for the staff.

One of the most coveted spots was this sunny expanse of laptop-friendly table surface beside a south-facing window. For inspiration, the CN Tower beckoned as well as a lovely garden in the library’s “back yard” below. I liked the feeling of simultaneously floating above the city yet remaining grounded near the super-busy intersection of College and Spadina.

The second floor contained a Chinese and French collection as well as an ingenious patron who had figured out a way to turn a library table into a cinema. Here’s how he did it. First, he laid a large rectangular man-bag on the table. Then he stacked eight DVD cases on top of that. Finally, he placed a portable DVD player at the summit of this tower, donned some headphones, and away he went.

After admiring the man’s mobile movie theatre, I trotted down to the main level’s west wing. Two puffy armchairs waited for their next readers in front of a large window overlooking College Street. Further into the room was a whimsical reading area that paid homage to the library’s roots as the Boys and Girls House at 40 Saint George Street (1922-1963).

And nestled in the southwest corner was the Children’s Literature Resource and the M. G. Bagshaw Collection.

Here, patrons can research items such as the best children’s book illustrations of 2006 or carefully turn the fragile pages of antiquated books like this one I picked out for its gilt flag.

I also admired these two pictures in the Bagshaw Room, Franz Cizek‘s “Herta Zuckerman, Aged 14 Years” and Ilse Breit’s picture of a girl beset by geese. (Breit was one of Cizek’s students). Both pieces hail from the Austrian art nouveau movement of the 1920′s and 1930′s.

On the other side of the main level, a relaxed-to-slouching Cat in the Hat was neighbour to a copper-coloured satin dragon. Both creatures were secured to the ceiling by clear plastic filaments.

Fittingly, the dragon seemed to be pointing in the direction of the door leading to the mysterious Gothic basement level, the remaining part of the library to be explored.

Actually, it wasn’t the satin dragon but Sarah the helpful branch head who showed me the downstairs area. (Sometimes I try too hard to be literary). Before Sarah returned to her work, she pointed out the fabulous echo feature in the circular courtyard. If you stand right in the middle and make a noise, it bounces back vastly increased in volume and distortion.

Holy Harry Potter! The magical literary universe of the basement is Alice in Wonderland meets fairy-tale castle meets LED sconces of poetic doom. I love it when interior decoration frees itself from the shackles of being sensible! And I love the fact that Lillian H. Smith is a place where the imagination is nourished.

Sarah had told me that walking up the steps gave her a sense of anticipation, and I could totally relate to that. If only all staircases were so evocative! After all, stairways are about transitions, portals, ascent and descent. Shouldn’t they have torches to celebrate their mystery?

The contrast between dream-like basement and sunlit Huron Community Garden was slightly disorienting, but the garden was a wonderful place to end my tour of Lillian H. Smith. Natural beauty, knowledge, and creativity go hand in hand, griffin talon in talon.

From the tree-trunk street furniture recycled from Regent’s Park demolition rubble to the containers of crayons provided for the kids, Parliament Street Library’s attention to detail sends a caring message. My most recent visit to the branch reminded me once again how much it does for the local residents.

When I arrived at 9:30 on Tuesday morning, the library was already busy. Almost all of the early bird patrons were men who quickly took their places at the study carrels, computer units, and large tables. One man guarded a trolley that seemed to contain all his possessions, including water bottles, a bag of bread, and some clothes.

I started my personal tour at the east wing. Happily, it contained lots of windows, including a curving bank of them with a view of the butterfly garden and tree-stump sculpture (the result of two recent projects by the Ward 28 Greenspace Committee).

The east wing also reached out to language lovers, immigrants, and the bilingual with its collections in Spanish, French, Tamil, Chinese, Vietnamese, Somali, and Amharic. Music lovers also had a nearby haven, a piano practice room that could be booked for an hour.

Adjacent to the piano room was a quiet study room. As I sat there taking photos of book covers, it was a poetic pleasure to hear classical melodies (slightly muffled) coming from next door.

The art on display in the central part of the library was almost as cheering as the piano music, especially this funky assemblage called “Memory Box” by Inge Vandermeulen. I liked the curving trail of puzzle pieces and the plastic mermaids glued to one side of the box.

And when I walked over to the Children’s Area in the west wing, I was immediately struck by the tapestry piece on the south wall. The charming result of children’s artistic collaboration during a TD Summer Reading Club program, what appealed to me about this wall-hanging was its wild woven strands on the horizontal combined with knotted strips of fabric hanging on the vertical. A fabulous textile!

My third object of art enthusiasm was a colourful piece depicting apartment dwellers with model reading habits. I later learned that the literary apartment picture is actually a plasticine original from Barbara Reid‘s Read Me a Book. (It was fun to encounter Reid’s work again after seeing it at Oakwood Village Library). All told, I really enjoyed the eclectic charm of assemblage, tapestry, and picture.

In addition to the lively visual art, a group of stuffed animals lent their plush hospitality to the west wing. For example, a giant Clifford dog sprawled on the ledge beside the red ramp leading to the Story Hour Room, and dotted along the upper ramparts of the shelving were Curious George, an alligator, Franklin the Turtle, and Babar the Elephant.

The Children’s Section was empty at first, except for a solitary reader who had pulled up her chair right next to a window sill. However, as the magic hour (and a half) of 10:30 drew nigh, librarians began to bustle in preparation for Preschool Story Time. Soon, a number of young story-seekers and their caregivers began to file into the Story Hour Room and gather in front of the puppet theatre. It was heartening to see that even in the 21st century, the prospect of a good old-fashioned story-reading can still create a buzz!

It would have been fun to hear the story, but I just had time to see the second floor before I left. As I walked up the steps, I remembered a field trip to this library that took place about five years ago: “(some) very helpful staff . . . gave a large group of ESL students from my centre an orientation, and the nerd in me thrilled when so many students got their first shiny blue library cards!” (quotation from Libraries, the sequel). On my Tuesday visit, an ESL class was in progress in the same room where my former students once had a mass filling-out of library application forms.

More good work takes place on the second floor, which also houses the Toronto Centre for Community Learning and Development as well as the Neighbourhood Information Post. I learned from one of Parliament’s gracious librarians that many patrons visit the Information Post to fill out forms, pick up mail, and receive welfare cheques. I’m so glad there’s a service that provides that crucial piece of assistance to deal with bureaucracies’ demand for permanent addresses. This is quiet heroism at its best.

I came away from my Parliament Street visit with a strong sense of this library’s commitment to serving children, immigrants, aspiring artists, and low-income patrons on the very edge of survival. Of course, all of the TPL branches provide these important services, too. It’s just that community work seems especially visible at this particular branch. For this reason, I believe Parliament Street deserves extra credit for its valiant role in supporting Toronto’s most vulnerable citizens.

“Waves on Stage” by Catherine Raine, 2011

A recent trip to Great Britain inspired “Waves on Stage.” When I visited Whitby, Saltburn, Eyemouth, and North Berick, I was mesmerized by the wild North Sea waves each time. I still have a landlocked Midwesterner’s appreciation of the sea!

“Waves on Stage” by Catherine Raine, 2011

“Waves on Stage” by Catherine Raine, 2011

“Dream Fans” by Catherine Raine, 2011

The second collage was influenced by the shape of “Waves on Stage.” And I liked the idea of fans floating above our heads while we dream.

“Dream Fans” by Catherine Raine, 2011

“Dream Fans” by Catherine Raine, 2011

To reach Saint James Town Library, I needed to pass through Wellesley Community Centre. An up-tempo game of table tennis was in progress in the lobby, and the cheerful sound of basketballs thumping on the gymnasium floor punctuated my steps to the library.

At 12:35 p.m. (five minutes after opening), the library was almost as crowded as the gym. Every computer unit’s dance card was full, and a number of patrons were lining up for their turn.

In addition to the draw of free internet, I could see why people were eager to spend time in such a vital space as Saint James Town. With the entire west wall (and part of the south) composed of windows, only a vampire with a hangover could complain about so much sunshine flooding the space.

I liked the quiet jellyfish corner, a contrast to the constant foot traffic at the corner of Wellesley and Sherbourne. In keeping with a sea-creature theme, fishing-rods sprouted from the wall and spun out lines to catch paper fish on a column. And sailing overhead was a colourful ship.

Joining the ship in the air was a watchful dragon who could oversee the entire library from his vantage point. Included in his domain was a large paper castle with fairytale inhabitants and a dragon comrade.

Fortunately, the smaller dragon’s flames weren’t real, for the smoke might have damaged an amazing book collection. Although Saint James Town isn’t large, its linguistic reach is wide enough to include Chinese, French, Korean, Russian, Spanish, Tagalog, Tamil, and Urdu.

A fire drill cut short my visit, but I had definitely seen enough to feel admiration for this well-utilized branch in the heart of the city.

Similar to Dawes Road and Thorncliffe branches, Flemingdon Park Library sits low among multiple sets of high-rise apartments. Located just south of the Don Mills and Eglinton Avenue intersection, the branch shares its quarters with a pool and community centre.

On my second visit to Flemingdon Park, I went directly to the sunny reading room that I remember admiring. An elderly patron was reading a newspaper in her first language with the aid of a magnifying glass, and a pleasant silence reigned among the wooden tables.

After some time getting reacquainted with the reading room, the skylight drew me back into the main section of the library. On my previous visit, I hadn’t noticed the mural that hung beneath the skylight. I liked the central Canadian flag and cheerful panels, each containing an individual picture.

For me, the heart shape composed of nestling face-crescents captured the beauty of multiculturalism, and I liked how the library materially supported the concept with resources in French, Chinese, Gujarati, Hindi, Persian, Russian, Spanish, Tagalog, Tamil, and Urdu.

A famous extra-terrestial also inhabited the mural, making me wonder if it might have been painted in 1982, the year the Spielberg movie came out. This would make historical sense, as Flemingdon Park branch opened in 1981.

Even though the library wasn’t as slick and shiny as some of the more recently renovated branches, it displayed a lot of heart. The Children’s section was unadorned but functional, and the multilingual collection impressive.

With such a diverse collection, it was easy to travel from a modest library to a world where you can meet a moon-fish, hipster bears, Persian heroes, or a jaguar on a jungle branch!

I rediscovered my love of art when I was 38 years old. The spark was a wonderful course facilitated by Erica Ross called “Create Your Own Healing Deck” at Sheena’s Place in 2007. By the end of the class, I had created more than a dozen cards that contained encouraging words and images to help me address my struggles with emotional eating.

My collages were exhibited at Sheena’s Annual Art Show (2007 and 2008), and I continued to attend classes there, including Erica’s “Dance Our Way Home” and Ellen Jaffe’s “Writing Your Way.” The prose-poem which accompanies “Ruined Barn” in this exhibit emerged from a writing exercise in which Ellen asked us to imagine ourselves as a landscape. “Barn Memory” wrote itself in a white-water rush, a lament for past and current losses:

I am a ruined barn, empty but smelling of ancient hay. I sit in a lost valley, no longer a shelter nor part of a living farm. I used to be warmer, to glow orange from lanterns on February mornings, to retain animal heat. Now my shadows fill in their outlines, random headlight baths from the highway my only relief.

 All my sounds are whispers and echoes now, where once I heard grunts, shouts, whinnies, cries of pain and hunger. It’s so quiet now. Ruin is quiet . . . . I miss being whole. I miss being real. I miss the animals I used to protect. (For complete text, see “Ruined Barn” collage in the exhibit).

“Ruined Barn” by Catherine Raine, 2010 ($250) All photos of exhibit artwork by Stewart Russell

 I believe “Barn Memory” and the collage I later composed to illustrate it were the “grief-seeds” (Rumi) at the root of Maps of Loss: Rivers, Ruins, and Grief.  Even though I made the encaustic painting “Inner Map: Non-Political” three years after I wrote the barn piece, there is a living connection between these two inner landscapes and the eight other works of art you see at Richview Library today.

“Inner Map (Non-Political) by Catherine Raine, 2010 ($200)

Maps of Loss has helped me articulate feelings of grief and map them visually, divining underground rivers of emotion that I hadn’t detected beneath the surface. This personal excavation has revealed unexpected artifacts, including a “Trippy Pier to Nowhere,” a heron (“Heron and Ladder”), a “Woman in Purple Bed,” and rivers (“Tidal River” and “Encaustic River Beast”). For me, these pieces speak to mystery, solitude, and a sense of moorings washed away.

“Trippy Pier to Nowhere” by Catherine Raine, 2009  SOLD!

“Heron and Ladder” by Catherine Raine, 2009  SOLD!

“Woman in Purple Bed” by Catherine Raine, 2009 ($150)

In July 2010, my childhood friend Jenny died of cancer at age 41. On the day she died, I went to the Picture Collection at the Toronto Reference Library to look for meadows and purple irises, Jenny’s favourite flowers. I felt connected to Jenny when I pored over a folder containing peaceful scenes from nature. And when I memorialized my friend in “Jenny’s Purple Iris,” I used the irises to create an organic gown, a vision of peace in her body after the suffering ended.

“Jenny’s Purple Iris” by Catherine Raine, 2010 (Not for sale)

In the fall of 2010, I distracted myself with a continuing education course in encaustic painting at the Ontario College of Art and Design. I learned how to melt wax to create tactile pieces that smelled of beeswax, and the three encaustic paintings in Maps of Loss come from my time at OCAD. Two of these pieces contain rivers, which reflects one of my earliest influences. Having grown up near the banks of the Missouri River, rivers mean home, time passing, movement, and change. They also represent uncensored feelings: unpredictable, fierce, embodying invisible currents and the wild mystery of eddies.

“Tidal River” by Catherine Raine, 2010 ($150)

“Encaustic River Beast” by Catherine Raine, 2010 ($150)

The remaining two pieces, “Lenin’s Mosaic” and “When Ruins Swoon,” flow back to the beginning, connecting me to “Ruined Barn.” The central photographs in both collages depict ruined houses in the former Soviet Union that have partially returned to nature after nuclear disaster. These images of Cold War wreckage haunt me because my father’s health was also ruined by this war. When he was in the United States Navy in the late 1950’s, he witnessed atomic blasts in the Pacific Ocean as part of a testing program during the nuclear arms race. From his post on Midway Island, he and his naval comrades watched the blasts without any protective gear, and the cancers he later developed correspond to cancers caused by radiation exposure. He died in 1995 at the age of 58.  (Jenny promised to give him a hug for me).

“Lenin’s Ruins” by Catherine Raine, 2011 ($250)  Central image photo by Gerd Ludwig

“When Ruins Swoon” by Catherine Raine, 2011 (Not for sale)

A ruined barn, house, or room can symbolize a body stricken by illness, once vital but now a broken husk. Ruins also represent loss, mortality, and history; they are relics of forgotten worlds. Like rivers, they testify to the inescapable passage of time. Like maps, they locate a particular grief or loss in a specific time and place. They are both tangible and abstract, accessible and remote.

To add an element of hope to the ruins, I have enveloped them in mosaics that suggest new colour and growth. Thank you for taking part in my own artistic growth by viewing Maps of Loss. Your presence helps me answer Rumi’s question: “Where will you plant your grief-seeds?”(Illuminated Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks)

“Maps of Loss: Rivers, Ruins, and Grief” Exhibit at Richview Library (September 2011)

The following short article was recently published in the Summer 2011 edition of First Light (a biannual publicationo of the Canadian Centre for Victims of Torture). I’d like to post the article on my blog for readers who may not otherwise have heard of First Light.

Transformative Student Testimonies from Two CCVT Journal Entries

By Catherine Raine  (LINC Instructor 2004-2010)

            When Ezat Mossallanajed invited me to contribute some writing on the topic of “love, compassion, and forgiveness in the rehabilitation of survivors,” I went to my journals to look for stories. I found a couple of entries which speak to survivors’ extraordinary inner strength, gratitude for life, and desire to help themselves and their communities.

January 20, 2010

I’ve been enjoying the student presentations in my CCVT English class because they’ve created a listening space that feels fresh and new.  So far, students have talked about computers, Albania, Eritrea, and fun places to visit in Toronto.

We also listened to a more personal narrative about a student’s struggle as a refugee claimant. She told us that she fled from her home country not once, but twice. The first time was because of war, and then her family returned when political independence was achieved. Sadly, conflict flared up again, so she left for good. Now she lives alone in Canada while her children and grandchildren reside in Europe and the Middle East.

I asked the speaker how she stayed so positive. “You smile all the time. How do you do it?”

“I have a lot of friends, and I like to help them. I am part of a community. When I break the fast at Ramadan with everybody, I don’t feel alone.”

She then asked me why some people in North America stay so negative: “Why they don’t give thanks for all the good things they have?”

 February 22, 2010

This morning one of my students gave a very moving presentation about the struggle to come to terms with her new life in Canada. When she came here less than two years ago, she had no English, no money, and no friends or family. In the shelter, she slept all the time because she was so homesick.

“Then I decided to have a talk with myself. I told myself it wasn’t good for me to sleep so much. I needed to study English.”

She was scared because she hadn’t gone beyond middle school in her home country. Regardless, she steeled herself for the task because she knew she had to have English communication skills to survive in Canada.

“On the first day of my class at CCVT, I cried because I couldn’t understand my teacher, Susanna. She was kind and told me not to cry. She said that she would help me.”

With Susanna’s compassionate encouragement, my student didn’t give up, and in two years, she has progressed from not knowing a single word of English to speaking in front of the class for fifteen minutes. She found the strength to fight for her new life when she could have just kept sleeping all day to escape reality. She’s a heroine to me.