Category: Toronto Public Library Pilgrimage of 100 Branches

Since my first visit to Mount Dennis in 2009, the branch has undergone a dramatic transformation. Although I missed the official post-renovation celebration in March of 2013, I still felt excited to see a brand-new library housed in the shell of the old one when I returned to take photographs in November 2013.

I liked how G. Bruce Stratton Architects combined grandeur and accessibility with classical columns and the wide open staircase in the centre of the building, all within the limits of 11,350 square feet.

As I walked the perimeter of the main floor, a variety of stylish yet comfortable reading perches presented themselves.

The Urban Living Room along the west wall lived up to its name, for the patrons there looked at home and relaxed. The only exception was a man who became so flustered when his cell phone rang that he darted out the emergency exit, only to set off the alarm, which flustered him more deeply.

Further along the west wall near the entrance were some unoccupied benches. While I was taking pictures there, a curious patron asked me what I saw in the benches. I told him that I enjoyed the play of light, the angles, and the shapes. This led to an interesting conversation about photography, art, negative space, and the importance of libraries. It was great!

After giving the man my card, I went downstairs to see the Children’s Area and Program Rooms. Gracing the inner sides of the rectangular frame that contained the stairway were alphabet streams flowing with cascades of vertical letters.

With a large space devoted to a KidsStop early literacy centre, the lower floor was alive with colour. According to the information leaflet that the branch head kindly gave me, “Photography is the theme” of Mount Dennis library’s KidsStop. “For many years the Kodak plant, now closed, was a major fixture of the community.”

A media wall invited engagement thanks to its screens with photo loops, a reading nook, and even a puppet theatre. I especially enjoyed seeing the children’s artwork chosen for photo-loop display.

KidsStop’s wooden “kiosks” offered great educational fun with an artistic flair. The marbles, film strips and stained glass struck me as particularly imaginative details.

Secured to the wall for easy page-turning, Zoran Milich’s The City ABC Book inspired fresh visions of literacy. I loved the way this giant book taught me how to look for letters in the shapes and forms I encounter every day in the city.

In a large room behind the KidsStop, potential for puppetry was increased with the presence of a puppet hut. It was also a place to view old photos of the neighbourhood and local artwork by students from Bala Public School.

When I wrote my first post about Mount Dennis in 2009, I described it as art-friendly, and I am so glad that the new version of the branch has stayed true to its dedication to celebrating children’s art.

In the northeast corner of the lower floor, I discovered two glass study cubes. During my 2013 visit, a tutor and child were working on a French lesson together. As I took photographs of giant filmstrips along the east wall, pleasing phrases such as “Le chat est sur la table” and “Le chat est dans le tiroir” rang out from the study corner.

I also enjoyed how the morning sun created magical effects on the decorative films strips. However, the strips were not just for show; the Mount Dennis information leaflet explained that they also served as practical magnetic substrates for displays of children’s artwork.

Before I left the library, I selected some books from the multilingual collection, which included Vietnamese, Spanish, and French. (Four years previously, Portuguese and Korean were part of the collection too, perhaps a reflection of changing demographics).

Thank you, Mount Dennis, for encouraging art, quiet reflection, Saturday French lessons, and new ways of looking at our world!

 

When I found Perth/Dupont Library after a pleasant stroll in the Junction, I was struck by how architectually-integrated the branch seemed. It looked like it had been lovingly tucked into its storefront room by the surrounding community.

Similar in size to Davenport Library, Perth/Dupont’s interior was off-white with olive trim and featured an exposed grey heating duct that snaked around three walls.

Not only was the library building in harmony with its neighbourhood, community artwork that decorated the interior also reflected the local style of architecture.

On my first visit in 2010, a blue alligator had kept watch from a platform above a square column built into the southeast corner of the library. And on a matching platform in the southwest corner, two white teddy bears with red-ribbon bow-ties served as guardians of their domain. In 2013, artwork had replaced alligator and bears, but luckily some photographic evidence of the blue gator remains (providing a solid clue that my camera skills have improved).

My 2013 visit also revealed a vision of flowers behind the bookshelves. Placed there to catch the rich southern light, the flowers delighted me with their winter-defying spirit.

Near the centre of the south wall was a heavy wooden frame that supported a large dragon face. This creature was a very toothy specimen indeed, and it sported a fang overbite without braces.

Not outwardly 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 that appeared to be a second home to the families who brought their kids to read and play.

When patrons came in, the librarian at the desk greeted them by name, including the smallest ones. What’s more, she engaged in relaxed conversations with the parents and didn’t yell when a few rambunctious kids crawled inside the paperback display frames. When the game of chase grew more 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 may have tested the acceptable limits of indoor decibels. What better testimony to Perth/Dupont’s genuine welcome to local families!

Disguised as an unassuming beige box, Northern Elms Library (2005) proved to be an oasis in a concrete desert. Although strip-malls along Kipling and Rexdale compassed it round, this small branch offered quiet and sunlight to its urban patrons.

From a black cushioned chair in front of the east window, I absorbed solar energy while I admired Northern Elms’ compactness. Moderately busy on an October Saturday, the library’s entire holdings fit into one room.

Dark orange, creamy yellow, and pale green covered the walls, and the floor tiles echoed these colours in both swirly and linear patterns. Composed almost entirely of glass, the south wall easily delivered light for the entire outfit and nourished extrovert flowers beside a wooden lattice.

Hovering from the ceiling in the Children’s section was a circular structure that looked like a UFO mothership. However, it differed from commonplace spaceships in that it was tricked out with four dainty hanging lamps.

Closer to the ground, a yellow table top in the shape of a fried egg was joined by a red chair with a heart-shaped back, a yellow one with a flower back, and a green smiley-face chair.

This corner of the library wasn’t just about the cheery furniture, though. On my first visit in 2009, gravitas was added by mysterious images of spiral galaxies and nebulas on a nearby bulletin board. When I returned in 2013 to take pictures of the branch, the board’s theme was “Fall Into Reading.”

Don’t let Northern Elms’ small size fool you. Its grounded yet cosmic appeal transcends gas stations, money markets, power lines, and parking lots.

When I saw Amesbury Park for the first time, I liked how it 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, but the library still defined space in interesting ways.

For example, a curved purple screen marked the border between the lobby and the Children’s area and served as additional back support for a cushioned red bench.

On my initial visit in 2009, the wave-shaped divider contained an open porthole that encouraged patrons to imagine a submarine universe, but the portal was absent in 2013.

Nevertheless, plenty of windows remained to illuminate the collections, including two giant triangular skylights and many large windows that faced the park.

As the photographs suggest, triangle shapes abounded in this purposeful yet relaxed parkside branch. However, lest I float off in a reverie of sunlight and triangles, I should mention the large ESL section and offerings in French, Spanish, Gujarati, Hindi, Italian, and Vietnamese. (By 2013, the Tamil collection had moved to Downsview branch). After admiring the multilingual collections, I moved on to Romance. While I was crouching down to examine the spine of a novel called Armed and Devastating, the lights went off briefly, signaling the library’s imminent closure. I enjoyed a few seconds of bathing in natural light — silver and blue on a late autumn afternoon — and gathered up my notebook and book sale items. Then I left Amesbury Park, my eighty-sixth branch, with the sense of an afternoon well-spent.

Eatonville Library resides at the intersection of Burnhamthorpe and Highway 427. A reconstruction of the building occurred in 2000, but heavy use has since tarnished some of its millennial shine. I sensed a more gritty vibe from this popular branch whose patrons’ cultural diversity reminded me of branches closer to my home in Scarborough, such as Fairview, Albert Campbell, and Cedarbrae.

On my first visit in 2009, I noticed a man praying on his knees behind the paperback carrels, rising and then returning to rest his forehead on the floor again and again. Not far from the devout man, library materials were on offer in Chinese, Serbian, Korean, Polish, Punjabi, Spanish, and French.

Eatonville’s children’s section was vast and well-stocked with English and multilingual books, but graffiti carved into the wooden window bench provided more urban realism than the library was probably looking for. While I like graffiti as a form of expression, it troubled me to see swear words embedded in a library bench.

Even the stuffed animals that lined two high shelves had seen more prosperous times; many of them were stained with magic marker, fur-tattered, and ready for retirement. Nevertheless, the sheer volume of the stuffed assembly was impressive: a frog lying on his back, a bunny, a duck, a blue and green bumblebee, a blue dog, a burgundy elephant, a clown, an electric-lime-green bear, a black hen, and a panda bear in a blue snow suit. (On my 2012 visit, I noticed that some of the more worn animals had been removed).

As I waited in a long line to check out a travel DVD, I gazed up at the high ceiling and appreciated the calm it afforded. In fact, several station points in the library provided uncluttered views and a sense of openness.

Walking back to the car, I admired the tall grasses planted around the perimeter of the building and a footpath composed of recycled manhole covers, now permanently free from the constant press of Toronto’s vehicles.

As I looked in my rear view mirror, the asymmetrical hulk of the library struck me as resembling a silver ocean-liner docked at the highway’s edge or possibly a gray whale taking a rest. Whether ship or mammal, I felt grateful for Eatonville’s vitality, commitment to diversity, and unconventional architectural beauty.

Cool concrete rectangles defined my first visual impression of Oakwood Village Library. The building’s calming interior colours, especially the mottled blue and grey accent walls, were a balm to thirsty eyes.

Even though Oakwood Village’s straight lines and concrete stairs reminded me of a university library, the lively clientele prevented  academic dust from accumulating. For example, a joyfully chaotic face-painting event had just broken up when I turned up to see the library for the first time.

Phalanxes of strollers streamed toward the exit, only slowed by a few recalcitrant toddlers in the collector lane. Wide aisles kept the traffic flowing peacefully.

On the east side of the room, an expanse of carpeted floor awaited the next storytelling audience. This open area’s only decorations were three art pieces by Barbara Reid. My favourite one depicted a father and daughter in a supermarket. I loved how Reid was able to make the plasticine glow with textile warmth.

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 artistic activity below.

Near the ledge were a couple of wide black chairs whose high backs contained large uniform holes. These leather chairs furnished the Teen Section, so it wasn’t surprising that I saw two actual teens interacting in 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, and Italian (Spanish and Portuguese were no longer available at this branch in 2013).

With only one floor left to visit, I trotted down to the basement to see the theatre. However, the door was locked, so I returned to the main level and studied a giant paper snowflake and authentic snow creating patterns on the skylights near the north wall.

In response to the snow, knitted blankets and scarves provided the perfect warming backdrop to a display of new books on the ground level. Fortified by the cozy textiles, I left Oakwood Village full of gratitude for this literary sanctuary filled with hospitable light.

As I walked through the lobby of Don Mills Library, a title in a book display briefly stopped my momentum: I Kissed a Zombie and I Liked It. Then I walked into the library proper and gazed upward to get a sense of the place.

“Warehouse” was the first word that came to mind to describe the main floor, but after a few moments I reconsidered. Although the large square interior reminded me of a box-store, its decorations saved the atmosphere from soullessness.

For instance, I have never seen a warehouse that displayed paper snowflakes. Nor have I observed an endearing bunny and elephant sharing a hot air balloon basket.

I also loved the soaring kites in the rafters, perfect for such an expansive ceiling.

Over in the children’s section on the west side, I noticed the story-telling steps and play area, where wooden walls created a distinctive space for drama.

The Young Adult wing on the opposite side of the main level also fostered a special sense of place, for its wall-to-floor windows on two sides invited openness and relaxation.

After admiring the east wing, I trotted downstairs. There, I noticed a more traditional library atmosphere, and the basement stacks reminded me of college libraries in the Midwest. The lower level at Don Mills also offered an auditorium, a meeting room, a small study room, and facilities for an Adult Literacy program.

Returning to the upper level, I puzzled some fellow patrons by taking photographs of books. I especially wanted a picture of a “Quick Picks” bag because I’d never seen this innovative option at other TPL branches. The bag contained four books chosen by a librarian, and the commands to “Grab a bag. Borrow them All!” served to combat indecisive dithering at the shelves.

As a district branch with a robust book collection, Don Mills definitely spoils its users for choice. For example, the large French collection yielded a petit vampire with a tail like a turnip root and Jeannot and Margot (or Hansel and Gretel en anglais).

In addition to French, Japanese and Chinese had substantial representation, and there were smaller collections of materials in German, Arabic, Spanish, Persian, and Hindi.

Indeed, Don Mills covered the gamut of the library experience from Art to Zombies. This was more than enough reason for a happy shadow dance!

City Hall Library is that rare branch that can pull off coziness and decorum at the same time. Its size (5,074 square feet) makes it seem approachable, but a lofty ceiling and serious grey walls show the appropriate level of dignity required for co-residency with Toronto’s municipal government offices.

In addition to being cozy and important, City Hall is also decidedly groovy. In fact, grooviness prevents City Hall from taking itself too seriously, as evidenced by the funky carpet in the children’s section, a triangles-on-acid painting, and the lively view of Nathan Phillips Square available from the south-facing windows.

On City Hall visit in 2011, I was in good company when it came to enjoying the chairs at the south windows, for I noticed piles of magazines left behind by previous afternoon readers. (A staff member told me that there are lines out the door during lunch hour). Stacked at random on a long stone bench were slightly rumpled editions of People, Hello, Popular Science, Spiderman, and Vogue.

One weighty tome stood tall among the fluffier reading fare on the bench: Canada: An Illustrated History. And I personally added several more books to the piles of reading material: Let It Shine, Besa, and Twilight in Chinese.

In spite of City Hall’s businesslike vibe, it contained lot of interesting nooks and angles that offered respite from the brisk pace of metropolitan life. For example, the children’s section was tucked away in the corner where two curved walls met. There, disc-shaped cushions silently invited readers to settle more comfortably into a beam of sunlight.

Most quirky and mysterious of all was a partially hidden staircase which led nowhere, Escher-style. As I was taking pictures on the 2011 trip, I noticed a man in a suit walk down the top steps and then disappear behind the walls that hid the bottom half of the stairs. He quickly reappeared at the top, looking confused.

When I asked a staff member about the steps, she explained that the library used to occupy more space (11,000 square feet) in the larger City Hall building. In 1996, a substantial part the library’s collection was transferred to Urban Affairs. That’s when the stairs were walled off from the current library space.

I hope the discombobulated man eventually found the exit he sought. And may multitudes of patrons continue to find their way to this groovy place of relaxation in the heart of the city!

Located just west of Bathurst on Bloor, Palmerston Library is small in size but hugely popular. Each time I visit this branch, it is packed to capacity with readers, web-surfers, and shelf-browsers.

At first impression, square angles and white paint seemed overly prominent at Palmerston, but what saved it from institutional blandness was a display of 2009’s Summer Reading Club illustrations near the entrance. These pictorial book reports contained time machines, fire engines, dragons, and volcanoes (among many other items).

To the left of the entrance, a wizard kite flew overhead in a floppy purple hat that was part-toque, part-nightcap. Wire-rim spectacles and a long gray beard reinforced his scholarly image, as did the reserved manner in which he had tucked his hands into drawn-on sleeves. (The wizard’s arms were actually more like implied limbs, for they served as the kite’s side flaps). The rest of the wizard’s body was one very long purple swoosh of kite material, spanning the children’s section diagonally.

The wizard had disappeared when I returned to the branch in 2012 to take some photographs. Having served the library for many years with distinction, the wizard’s tenure had come to an end.

When Palmerston opened in the early 1970’s, it was a children’s library. Almost forty years later, the children’s books are still plentiful, including lots of French ones, even though the branch now caters to teenagers and adults as well.

The adult section offered a plentiful supply of Korean materials and some Spanish ones. Also, a small Local History Collection displayed titles such as The Riot at Christie Pits, The Annex, and Honest Ed Mirvish: How to Build an Empire on an Orange Crate.

Honest Ed‘s brilliantly corny signs weren’t visible from my table near the computers, but I didn’t mind. My favourite aspect of Palmerston is its ability to provide a scholarly shelter from the bustle and noise of nearby Bloor Street. Palmerston, thank you for your peaceful atmosphere, children’s art, wizard kite, colourful books, and neighbourly attitude.

Before I even stepped inside Gerrard/Ashdale Library, its unique flair proclaimed itself from an outdoor mural. Decorating the sides of a concrete platform rising from the sidewalk, the mural featured elephants, the Taj Mahal, a lotus flower, a tiger, a dancer, 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 that has presided on this corner since 1924.

When I first visited Gerrard/Ashdale several years back, the upper story’s wooden beams and fireplace made a big impression on me. 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 dark woodwork set off their covers nicely, and the books also looked naturally artistic on top of a long shelving unit.

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 nearby table waited for its players to return.

I gazed up at two skylights and then briefly sat down beside a round window that comprised most of the east wall of the children’s room. 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.

Returning to the main floor, I considered checking out some books on Indian textiles. Although I didn’t have any materials to feed the returns monkey, I left Gerrard/Ashdale with happy memories of a historic branch that responds to the needs of diverse 21st-century Torontonians.

The first time I visited Mimico Centennial Library, it was a rainy winter afternoon in 2009. As I walked up the path to this neighbourhood branch, I noticed that its grounds were more extensive than many libraries located in land-strapped downtown. Long benches rested on a courtyard, hinting at future summer relaxation under the trees.

Mimico Centennial’s interior was equally spacious, with floor-to-ceiling front windows and an uncluttered atmosphere. One of the windows featured paper icebergs, snowflakes, and polar bear families floating in a carefree manner. Other windows in the branch came with blue leather window seats, and I was especially delighted with one quiet corner where the seat afforded a view of a fir tree, an ideal spot to compose poems, text messages, and journal entries.

In addition to its daydreaming facilities, I was impressed by the size of Mimico Centennial’s Polish collection, which filled almost two-thirds of one entire wall of shelving. The other third was comprised of materials in Russian, with Spanish and ESL also making a respectable showing. In addition, the Children’s section had a number of books in French.

Shifting my gaze from the shelves to the ceiling, my curiosity was intrigued by an upper level that could be reached by iron staircases on either side. This platform occupied part of the ceiling space of the main floor and served as a study area (similar in structure to the minstrel galleries at Wychwood, High Park, and Beaches branches).

The north stairs beckoned, so I went up to investigate the platform. When I reached the upper floor, I was surprised but not displeased to find mostly empty space. Only a few tables distracted from the vast expanse of carpet, and I saw just one educational display, a literacy tool featuring twenty-six paper frogs stuck to the west wall. Each frog was wearing a letter on its belly, and lists of words which started with that particular letter were written underneath. Six of the alphabet-loving amphibians were still patiently waiting for their words: frogs J, K, Q, V, X, and Z.

After descending the south staircase to return to the main level, I found a Bollywood DVD and trotted over to the checkout desk, where a personable librarian bade me to enjoy my selection. Then I ran down to the basement level to admire a glossy round table made from a giant tree-trunk. The carvings of wolves, buffalo, beavers, deer, foxes, and maple leaves provided the perfect patriotic symbolism to celebrate an edifice constructed one hundred years after Canadian federation.

When I stepped into Rexdale Library’s lobby on my first visit, I spent several minutes studying a historical display about the library. It included a fascinating newspaper clipping that showed how rural Kipling Heights used to be in 1955.Though not as empty as the field in the photograph, Rexdale wasn’t crowded on the afternoon of my first visit. Near the west wall, a couple of elderly men reminisced about post-war TTC fares that cost six cents.A few shelves away from the gentlemen’s table were books and DVD’s in languages that were rarely heard in Kipling Heights fifty-five years ago: Gujarati, Punjabi, Spanish, and Hindi. Complementing the multilingual materials, a paper tree bearing name-fruit provided more examples of Rexdale’s rich diversity. The tree was located to the left of a C-shaped bench under the west bay windows where Lola Bunny, Dora the Explorer, Winnie the Pooh, Pikachu, and an Anime Warrior Girl dwelled.Opposite the windows, a wooden sliding screen completed the circle started by the window seat. The screen’s flexibility made it possible to enclose the area and define it as separate from the rest of the library. Emphasizing the room’s singularity, a circular depression in the middle suggested a woodland pond.Two carpeted steps led readers down to the pool, providing a suitable transition from land to water. With late afternoon sunlight shining through the bay windows, this otherwise ordinary branch was transformed into a cartoon gallery.

The effect was even more theatrical on a return visit in October 2014, for the paper tree had turned scary for the season and atmospheric cobwebs draped the room.

Rexdale Library, thank you for your history, diversity, cartoon characters, and willingness to celebrate the changing seasons!

The story of Taylor Memorial Library is a love story. In 1962, Fred Taylor donated his 1921 family home to the Scarborough Public Library Board as a memorial to his first wife, Florence Nightengale Taylor. After twenty-two years as a library, the house near Kingston and Warden was demolished and the current building opened in 1985 on the same site.

When I visited Taylor Memorial for the second time in 2011, I realized that I had previously overlooked a black and white photograph of Florence Taylor in a long formal gown. A lovely flowering vine curled around her photo on the white mat between the picture and the frame. To the right of Florence’s tribute were photographs of Fred Taylor and his second wife, Kate.

I was sorry that the original Taylor house no longer remained because I would like to have seen it. The next best thing was a painting of the 1921 home which hung above the east side of the fireplace. The artist, Nikita Marner, presented the viewer with a tall fairy-tale cottage distinguished by a timbered exterior.

Befitting a library whose origins were rooted in an actual house, the current Taylor Memorial building struck me as more home-like than many of the other TPL branches. As I took in the library’s interior, I was impressed by how faithfully it upheld the spirit of the Taylor’s gift: a home to serve as a sanctuary for quiet reading and reflection.

I hope Fred and Kate would have been pleased that I found Taylor Memorial to be the least institutional of all the seventy-four branches I had visited before I encountered it. Each piece of furniture was just right for settling down for a good long read, including the lawn chairs on the covered patio by the garden, the  armchairs near the fireplace, and the semi-circular cushioned window seat in front of a bay window.

Three elegant paintings of the Scarborough Bluffs (one of the original cliffs in Yorkshire and the others of the local Ontario version) also made the interior space feel more domestic. They served as reminders of the real lake that beckoned in a sparkly manner just a few miles away.

On the south wall, an arched stained glass window lent a sacred element to the relaxing atmosphere. Echoing the floral embellishments on Florence Taylor’s photo, translucent butterflies and a few birds fluttered attendance on a flowering vine that filled most of the window.

With its high windows, refined paintings, garden views, and comfortable surfaces, Taylor Memorial branch invited peace into the soul. If you are a visionary or just someone who loves to read in a state of restful abandon, I highly recommend a pilgrimage to this harmonious library. Taylor Memorial’s reader-friendly aesthetic embodies the loving spirit of its benefactors, Fred and Kate Taylor.

On a summer evening in 2009, I walked from my house to Liberty Square Shopping Plaza to attend a celebration of the freshly renovated Kennedy/Eglinton branch. Architects had repurposed the seedy bar next door, turning it into a library extension complete with a computer lab, community room, reading lounge and automated checkout area.

More than doubling the space, the expansion and renovation has made Kennedy/Eglinton Library almost unrecognizable compared to its pre-2009 manifestation. What had once been a cramped outpost of learning is now a spacious establishment that brightens Liberty Square.

From the polished tiles in the new entryway to the sparkly wall panels in the Teen’s area, the entire facility embodies hope in new beginnings. The improved Kennedy/Eglinton branch also offers many textured spaces, corners, and rooms that contain a variety of furniture: plush armchairs, a study nook with three-cornered bench, and a window seat in the children’s section.

On the evening of my 2009 visit, patrons of all ages had come out to experience the new library, and they occupied almost every table, computer and study area. As I wandered through the rooms, impressed by their vitality, I appreciated the linguistic diversity reflected in shelves stocked with Chinese, Tamil, and Hindi materials. The community room was surprisingly quiet, but signs of recent social activity lingered, including paper cups heaped in the trash and an empty silver tray smeared with blue and white icing.

However, minor disappointment over a missed cake opportunity could not spoil the grateful mood inspired by this expanded branch in Scarborough Junction. The building’s makeover has not only improved its architectural looks; it has made the area feel safer. Before 2009, I used to feel intimidated to walk over to the library at night and drop off books because bar patrons would be perched on the outside window ledges of the library underneath signs that said, “Do not sit near the drop box.” Post-renovation, a former tavern tarnished by reports of criminal assault has been transformed into a handsome place of learning that serves as a community sanctuary. Long may its light shine!

From its welcoming bronze owl to a quilted mural under a hammerbeam ceiling, Beaches Library is as an exceptionally photogenic building.

The transition from Beaches’ exterior to interior is not abrupt, for not only is there a reading garden outside, but numerous windows also create a close relationship between the indoor patron and Kew Gardens outside.

On my visit to Beaches Library in 2010, the trip felt like an al fresco outing because of all the abundant natural light. For instance, the long cushioned window bench on the west side of the first floor was drenched in sunshine, making it the perfect place to commune with a storybook.

Further coziness could be found in a wooden reading hut that sheltered a substantial blue cushion. On the same 2010 visit, I heard the sweet voice of a mom reading The Ugly Duckling to her child. They were inhabiting the playhouse comfortably, as if they had read there many times before.

Moving from the Children’s Section to the check out area, I paused to admire a paper jungle that had taken root on the doors leading to the meeting room. On a pre-2010 visit, the door had been open, offering a glimpse of a wooden puppet theatre and an old stone hearth within. However, this time, a dangling monkey, a fierce snake, and not-so-fierce butterflies guarded the door.

Even though I had previously visited Beaches branch many times, I nevertheless walked up the stairs to the second level with a sense of anticipation on picture-taking expeditions in 2010 and 2015. I wasn’t disappointed either time, for the high timbered ceiling that identifies Beaches with its sister 1916 Carnegie-funded libraries, High Park and Wychwood, was as gorgeous as ever. In my view, Beaches’ choice of wall paint contrasted very well with the dark wood, taking dignified warmth to another level with an intense shade that fell somewhere between electric nectarine and the ruby red of a Jolly Rancher candy.

Ascending to the minstrel gallery near the north wall and gazing over the grand east wing, I felt an airborne kinship to the great blue heron pictured over the stone hearth on the opposite wall. Everyday concerns seemed less important from this inspiring height.

When I stopped taking photos from the high gallery, I returned to the second floor to study a quilted tapestry. One of the librarians explained that it had been created in 1984 by local community members and library staff to celebrate the sesquicentennial of the founding of Toronto. The textile piece depicted park frolics and beach excursions in a playful variety of colours.

In addition to the quilt’s colours and textures, what impressed me most was the painstaking way that individual panels connected with each other. If one small section had a footpath sewn on it, then the section below it would be sure to continue the path and incorporate it into its own particular scene.

Kneeling in front of the mural, I got in the way of a hapless staff member who was only trying to sort books from a cart. I wanted to move to a place where I’d be less obstructive, but the more I looked at the quilt, the more stitched details I found to fascinate me.

I was especially taken with the puffy trees, squirrels, and whimsical figures enjoying their day at Kew Gardens and the beach. And on a lower panel to the right, I loved the way a woman with an orange buggy was about to stroll directly into the magazine sale on the shelf.

When I finally tore myself away from the quilt, my arms were sore from aiming the camera over my head so many times. My next focal point was the stone hearth on the south wall, which imagination furnished with blazing fire and early twentieth-century patrons vying for fireside reading spot.

Moving from the east to west wing, I noticed some casement windows embedded in the stone overhead, providing a fitting transition from the loftily elegant east side to the more intimate west. My last stop for the day was the reading lounge on the upper west wing, where streaming sunlight and comfortable leather chairs created an ideal atmosphere to relax at one of the loveliest branches in the TPL system.

Through no fault of its own, Woodview Park Library resides in a shabby strip plaza near the intersection of Sheppard Avenue and Weston Road. Even though the branch lacks actual views of woods or parks, sunbaths from the storefront windows compensates for the spartan interior.

The teen nook offers a welcoming bench and some Beatles-inspired artwork, creating an ideal corner to read a magazine or graphic novel in the sun.

A smaller table on the opposite end of the single-room branch signals the start of the children’s section. On the table, a large container of crayons invites creativity into the library. The east wall contains the the brightest decorations at Woodview Park. Adhering to this wall are the same wooden cut-outs in the shape of joyful kids that Black Creek Library has.

Below the cheerful artwork, low-budget yet inventive taped objects offer visual clues to various categories of books, such as toothbrushes for the Human Body, a tiara and wand for Fairy Tales, foam planets for Astronomy, a shuttlecock and assorted erasers for Sports, and a heraldic shield for Medieval Times.

Woodview Park offers 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).When I left the library on my 2014 visit, I didn’t feel the wistful ennui of a woman being presented with a butterfly she doesn’t want. The sunny bustle of Woodview Park had turned a dreary winter Saturday morning into a cheerful one.

My first visit to Humber Summit (1974) was a flying one because it was less than an hour before closing when I arrived. A small branch placed on top of a gentle hill, Humber Summit’s interior successfully imitated a comfortable living room.

Contributing to the domestic atmosphere was a group of youngsters on a red sofa who were watching Hairspray. While Tracy Turnblad danced her way to personal and civil rights victories, I looked at shelves that offered materials in Spanish, Italian, Punjabi and Urdu. (On my return visit in 2014, I noticed that Spanish and Italian were no longer part of the collection). Despite the presence of a ten-headed demon king, Humber Summit’s generously-placed windows comforted me with sunlight no matter which direction I turned.

Though I could have basked in front of the main floor’s windows for much longer, 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.

Minutes before closing, I made a hasty exit to avoid delaying the staff. However, there was still time to admire a sparkly display in the lobby and the business names across the street: Om Cash Bank, Bollywood Lollywood DVD’s, Empanadas, and Asafo Market. As I walked back to the car, all was quiet at sunset on the mild slopes of Humber Summit.

To enter Jane/Dundas Library from the parking lot is to encounter the branch as a visual whole — silver, light-filled, and open. Look down from the lobby ramp and you can see groups of teen patrons in their study nook. 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, inviting a sense of expansiveness. Further openness comes from the generous amount of free space overhead as well as the enormous west-facing window on the main floor, a spot where the sun makes shadow art on the floor of a reading lounge with a 1960’s vibe.

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 self-improving energy, a beautiful painting of a tree in the teen enclave, and a playful set of shelves in the children’s area. These wooden shelves contain an open square frame that allows young library-users to peer into a storybook zone.

With so many angles, corners, and views, Jane/Dundas provides a dynamic interior upon which to lift your gaze before burrowing back into study. As for me, I’m grateful for a morning immersed in this imaginative environment at the intersection of Jane and Dundas!

Occupying a position on the northwest frontier of the Toronto Public Library map, Humberwood branch lies forty-three kilometres from my 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 Humberwood Community Centre bordered a cluster of suburban houses, a rural atmosphere prevailed thanks to tall grasses that ringed the building and softened any blunt angles.

Due to 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 exulted when I saw a so many luscious grasses heaped up in front of the Humberwood 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 quickly perched on it to soak up the view from the inside. There, I admired some cottony tufts and felt sun-warmed and content.

A few paces from the wonderful bench was a rope hammock hanging from the ceiling. Nestled together in a cuddly heap were two gorillas prepared for study with a book, folder, and positive attitudes. Closer to the ground, resources in Hindi, Gujurati, and Punjabi were located a few bookshelves away from the hammock residents. French materials were also available near the children’s section.

A large paper tree and attendant dinosaurs — all holding prehistoric court among rocks and tissue paper on top of a sturdy bookshelf — announced the presence of the children’s area near the south wall. Sea and jungle creatures flanked the dinosaurs on their own shelf-tops.

On my first visit in 2009, what tickled me about the southwest corner of the library was the zany collection of Barbie dolls and action figures that 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 of 2009 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. When I returned to Humberwood in 2014, the Wuvluv had migrated to a shelf that contained an Eiffel Tower replica and five paper boxcars.

More boxcars rode wildly overhead a few steps to the right, replacing the Barbies of five years ago.

Descending to the middle air, a fairy habitat graced the shelf near the children’s computer bay. Standing at attention, a wooden clown guarded the emergency exit, waiting for a photogenic face to fill the empty circle.

Although the clown didn’t persuade me to stop for a photograph, I still had a wonderful time in this spacious one-room library on the edge of Toronto’s city limits. A literary surprise amid tall grasses, Humberwood Library is now on my list of favourite TPL branches.

 

The penultimate Toronto Public Library I visited on my quest was one of its smallest: Swansea Memorial. This compact branch occupied one room on the upper floor of Swansea’s City Hall, where it has resided for fifty-six 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 size was compensated by epic historical flavour. Even its study table had a history; carpenter S. Haslam built it in 1926.

I liked the pioneer vibe of this venerable library, for it evoked the one-room schoolhouses of Little House on the Prairie and Anne of Green Gables. In fact, Anne’s famous Canadian author,  L. M. Montgomery 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 (p. 446).

As evidence of further connection to Swansea Memorial, the library had a copy of a 1939 letter that Montgomery signed. The letter praised one Mrs. R. C. Smith, a woman who served as chairperson of the local library board for twenty years. From a leaflet about Swansea Memorial Library’s history, I learned that credit for its creation belongs to the Women’s Patriotic League of Swansea, who wanted to honour the 152 freshly-returned local veterans of the First World War as well as “our twenty men who sleep in Flanders Field” (see letter above).

However, soldiers’ tombstones and Haslam’s no-nonsense table didn’t completely define Swansea Memorial. The trippy whimsy of a tie-dyed kite, a plush turtle and a mural cat with its paws on an outlet softened the solemn military associations of the library’s name.

My last act of homage at Swansea Memorial 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. I also appreciated how the mural held the tension between memorial and celebration, making it an ideal spot to reflect on a pilgrimage to all of Toronto Public Library‘s branches. Thank you, Swansea Memorial, for remembering lives lost in war and appreciating flowers, ladybugs, cats, swans, turtles and squirrels.