Breakfast in Scarborough

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.

After crossing a footbridge over multiple railroad tracks, I found TPL’s newest branch around the corner from a new Tim Hortons and shiny condominiums — all on a brand new street.

Excited to photograph my 99th branch, I began in the first-floor reading lounge, which offered sunlit construction scenes and useful red benches that spanned the length of the west wall. When the benches reached the children’s section, a bookshelf appeared underneath the perching surface, showing consideration for the height and reach of TPL’s youngest patrons.

On the day of my visit, forty-one babies arrived to take part in the morning’s Baby Time program. This massive turn-out forced the giant ABC letters in the children’s area into temporary exile in the lobby. During the 30-minute program, I enjoyed how the sound of the energetic rhymes carried throughout the open space of the two levels, enriching the learning atmosphere by making it home-like, cheery, and inclusive.

The spaciousness of the branch supported one of the defined goals of Fort York Library, which was to welcome nearby condo-dwellers who might need extra work space outside of home. I learned this fact from the Children’s and Youth Services librarian for Fort York (a friendly young woman with crayon marks on her business card who fist-bumped customers that she knew by name). She also told me that many young families with children inhabit the local condos, hence the impressive showing at the program.

As I explored Fort York, I came to admire how TPL’s welcoming intentions manifested themselves in details such as Baby Time programs, ottomans with outlets, and study pods that resembled stylish covered bridges.

I also appreciated Fort York’s unique position as an observation post in the very heart of intense construction activity. From almost every vantage point in the library, evidence of a city on the edge of change met the eye.

Even the soaring angles of the ceiling and girder-inspired plays of light from the windows gave an impression of dynamic energy.

Although rampant construction near the shore of Lake Ontario rouses mixed reactions, nobody can accuse Toronto of simply standing still. Today’s dirt promises to be tomorrow’s Mouth of the Creek Park.

Whether you find the changes irritating or simply invigorating, Fort York Library provides both a frame and an example to showcase an evolving city in all its grubby glory.

What distinguishes Bridlewood Mall from less mortally-aware malls is a small cemetery in its parking lot. In the picture above, the word “low” in the supermarket’s sign is positioned such that the tombstone is a pointing to it in a somber yet market-savvy manner.

Before I investigated the library’s new location in 2011, I haunted the ghostly site of its previous home. Looking through the window, I remembered my 2009 visit to Bridlewood Library and how I’d described a rocket made out of construction paper and aluminum foil.

The sadness of the empty room was tempered by its resemblance to a potential set for an ’80’s dance movie like Footloose or Flashdance in which a solitary dancer turns a warehouse or some other unlikely spot into a personal stage. (Then a love interest will unexpectedly witness the performance, startling the solitary dancer).

Shaking off the dance reverie, I took the escalator down to the lower floor of Bridlewood Mall. As I was gliding down, I eagerly scanned left and right for the newly-located branch. I finally spotted it between Shoe Club and Shoppers Drug Mart, and I spent a few minutes taking it in.

The raw energy plywood and bold zigzags first caught my attention. Even though Bridlewood was alive with people, it still managed to look spacious, especially in contrast to the crowded shops surrounding it. I liked the high ceilings and the thick vertical bands of colour that reminded me of a TV screen on a station break.

The intensity of human activity was remarkable at this branch; dynamic patrons were coming and going, reading and browsing, studying and surfing the web. Every single study carrel had a scholar, blue stools supported grandmothers in the children’s area, and at one table two young siblings shared a chair without a squabble. I even saw one determined reader sitting on the floor between shelves. She was happily absorbed in an atlas, head lowered for fuller map immersion.

In the northeast corner of the room, an animated reading circle for children was in progress. One of the teachers explained to a parent, “We’re playing Scrabble. It’s a good game to increase vocabulary and spelling skills.” In an enthusiastic voice, she encouraged the kids to pick out letters (like “T” for tiger) and read the words on the game board.

On the west side of the library, funky tables and mailing tubes created a fanciful reading space in the children’s area. Overhead, the lanterns embodied a vision of jellyfish clouds.

At first I was unsure if I liked the packing tubes because they reminded me of upright cigarettes, but I gradually came to terms with them as interesting space dividers.

Rectangular windows in the plywood divider between the reading lounge and the children’s collection offered additional fresh perspectives as did artistic trees etched in milky glass facing a wide mall-corridor.

As I took a final admiring glance at Bridlewood, it was a joy to see so many families spending their Saturday at the library. Youngsters were hoisting as many books as they could carry and hauling them to the check-out. Adults toted canvas shopping bags brimming with TOEFL guides and magazines.

All in all, Bridlewood branch had a beautifully exuberant atmosphere despite the presence of a graveyard in the parking lot. Not even Victorian tombstones could inhibit this renovated library’s vivacious spirit!

Located inside East York Community Recreation Centre, Todmorden Room is the smallest Toronto Public Library branch. With a maximum capacity of 33 people, the humble size of this facility gave it extra charm, a welcome throw-back to a slower, more relaxed era before automated check-out stations and big city anonymity.

The main desk of Todmorden Room was directly in front of the entrance, and my husband Stewart was struck by how the librarian greeted each incoming patron by name. Even though there were only eight people in the library (including two staff members), we kept tripping over each other as we moved up and down the two short aisles.

The only multilingual resource I noticed at Todmorden Room was a Spanish learning kit with a CD, and the ESL collection had only fourteen books (hardly the fault of library with so little space to spare).

As at Woodside Square, Eglinton Square, and Bridlewood, the romance genre was well-represented, and it included a couple of titles that caught my attention: Kidnapped by the Cowboy and Outback Boss, City Bride. (While visiting the outback, I hope the urban spouse offers Marxist-feminist workshops on marital gender roles).

As I exited the room, I noticed a beige locker beside the check-out desk, possibly a hand-me-down from the gym down the hall. I liked how the library was well-integrated into the community centre, which also offered swimming and martial arts classes. In fact, I learned from the librarian that families often coordinate their trips to the branch around activities at the centre.

Way to go, plucky Todmorden Room! You bring the convenience, the family welcome, and flower-inspired children’s art!

I first wrote about Brookbanks Library in 2007, but it was only one line about this “quiet branch near a karate school in North York.” Two years later, I called in for the second time so I could describe the branch more fully. And then I visited for the third and fourth times in 2012 and 2015 to take some photographs.

Unobtrusively tucked behind a shopping plaza, Brookbanks Library contained an auditorium on the lower level, a main level, and a raised platform near the back of the main level that occupied about a quarter of the interior space. Connecting the main floor with the upper platform was a short flight of steps and a ramp in the shape of a backwards letter “L”.

Just to the right of the entrance on the east side of the library, materials in Farsi, French, Chinese, Hindi, Spanish, and Romanian caught my eye. In response to a shift in local demographics, a couple of notices advised that the Russian collection had been moved to Fairview Library, as had the Tamil collection (which could also be accessed at Maryvale branch).

As I rounded the northeast corner of the main floor, I came upon agreeable window seats along the north wall. They were plush, gently purple, and low to the ground. On my 2012 visit, I noticed that the purple covering had morphed into dark grey with a pattern of abstract loonies and toonies.

A matching window bench, though upholstered in green in 2012 and aqua in 2015, was in the teen section on the raised upper level. Young patrons who were reading in a sprawl on the floor and lounging in their socks on green cushions gave the library a homey atmosphere. I liked how nobody was shooing them in the direction of more conventional surfaces like tables and chairs.

After relating to the furnishings on the upper level, I took the ramp back down to the main floor, which gave me the opportunity to check out an elaborate mural by G. Eversole (1997) that stretched across a third of the north wall and most of the west wall. The centrepiece of the work was a large tree trunk from which grew copious foliage spreading in two directions.

The more I looked into the leaves, the more entities I discovered: a green monster claw grabbing a purple book, the yellow hat of Curious George’s guardian, mangoes, a sign that warned of napping Grues, a second descending monster with pink toe-talons, and a Famous Tails collection that included thin tails, fat tails, and striped tails in assorted colours.

The last set of window seats of the day were flush against the south wall in the children’s section. A huge white bear, taller than many of the aspiring readers in his jurisdiction, hosted a number of other stuffed animals on his person. Three bunnies — Bugs Bunny, a generic rabbit in calico, and one in a camouflage jumpsuit — rested on the bear’s lap while a turtle and small bear occupied his right leg. A large Curious George doll sat to the big bear’s left and rested a friendly monkey paw on his shoulder. A copy of Knut the Baby Polar Bear was propped on the bench just below George’s paw.

Between 2009 and 2012, something chaotic happened to the stuffed animal collective. In 2009, the group was composed and dignified, but the disorderly scene in the following photo suggests a surprising behavioural change.

Did these animals attend a wild rumpus the previous night? Even the sweet small duck looked as if it was having a rough morning-after experience.

Taking a final glance at Brookbanks Library, I noticed a fuzzy piranha in green and blue near my left foot. Although its many teeth were made of felt and my shoes were close-toed, I decided it was time to catch an express bus on York Mills Road without delay.

Thank you, Brookbanks Library, for your gorgeous trees, colourful mural, and plentiful window-seats!

To reach Saint James Town Library, I passed through Wellesley Community Centre’s lobby, where an up-tempo game of table tennis was in progress. As I hurried to the library entrance, the cheerful sound of basketballs thumping on the gymnasium floor punctuated my footsteps.

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 to surf.

In addition to the draw of free internet, I could see why people were eager to spend time at Saint James Town. With the entire west wall (and part of the south) composed of windows, only a bat or a vampire 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 harmony with the sea-creature theme, fishing-rods had sprouted from the wall and spun out their 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 fairy tale inhabitants and a dragon comrade.

Fortunately, the smaller dragon’s cardboard flames posed no threat to an amazing book collection. Although Saint James Town was modest in size, its linguistic span was wide enough to include Chinese, French, Korean, Russian, Spanish, Tagalog, Tamil, and Urdu.

A fire drill cut short my 2011 visit, but I had definitely seen enough to feel admiration for this well-utilized and vital branch in the heart of the city. A return trip in 2015 only confirmed this impression, especially when the word “imagine” etched itself in shadow on the warm windowsill.

Saint James Town, thank you for proclaiming the light of imagination from the windows and the castle ramparts! Your jellyfish, flying ship, and dragons foster a playful learning environment for the fortunate Toronto Public Library patrons who call you home.

In the spring of 2010, I attended Thorncliffe’s re-opening ceremony and bagged my 99th branch into the bargain! With excited patrons, balloons, and belly dancers, I privately co-opted some jubilation for the end of my library quest.*

I arrived at Thorncliffe Library at 12:45 pm, which was fifteen minutes before the opening. Luckily, I was near the front of the queue, which seemed to double every five minutes. By the time the doors opened at 1:05, the line had lengthened to almost a block! Veiled mothers with strollers, elderly gentlemen in suits, media representatives, white-haired ladies, and lively kids milled about agreeably.

When I took a moment to study the area surrounding the library, all I could see were high-rise apartment buildings in every direction. The claustrophobic view reminded me of a Toronto Star article about Thorncliffe that I’d read several months previously. According to Immigration Reporter Nicholas Keung, “More than 30,000 (Thorncliffe) residents — mostly newcomers — are crowded into 34 highrise and lowrise apartments in a 2.2-square kilometre concrete jungle behind Don Mills Road and Don Valley Parkway” (“Crowded, Stresssed Thorncliffe” January 11, 2010).

No wonder the line was so long and the faces so expectant; the people of Thorncliffe had been without their local library for two and a half years. I imagined packed elevators pouring book-lovers onto Thorncliffe Park Drive this afternoon, all eager to see a branch that was now twice its former size.

The crowd pushed forward when two security guards opened the doors, and the interior of Thorncliffe proved itself worthy of the wait and 1.83 million dollars. After I was handed a sturdy blue TPL bag and got my hand shaken by Councillor John Parker (Ward 26, Don Valley West), I took in the whole 10,000 square feet of the library.

The newness and energy of the space was tangible, and I was drawn to the large sound system that was animating two belly dancers in sparkly gear. Arms dipping and swooping, they were grooving in front of the east windows of the children’s section that overlooked a central courtyard.

A few yards away from the dancers, the word “read” in enormous three-dimensional letters was attached to the north wall. Each of the four lower-case letters had its own colour, creating an interactive word sculpture. The giant word was the centerpiece of Thorncliffe’s KidsStop, a play area that promotes pre-literacy skills. (Thorncliffe is the third TPL branch to have a KidsStop, after S. Walter Stewart and Dufferin/Saint Clair).

In the Toronto Star article mentioned above, Keung cited the statistic that “one quarter of Thorncliffe’s population is under 14.” The improved children’s area made me happy because it meant that the kids of Thorncliffe would now be better served, with more books, more space, a set of pink and teal armchairs that roll on huge wheels, and some colourful low cushions that reminded me of Lucky Charms moons and stars.

Within minutes of the opening, children were playing on the r, e, a, and d structures and enjoying hands-on learning games that were built into the 3-D letters. Kids were spinning dials, examining wooden toggles on a slate, enjoying an alphabet table, and checking out a counting wheel. One small patron lost no time in claiming a seat on the upward curve of the bottom half of the red letter a. What a great example of experiencing the alphabet kinesthetically! Mission accomplished, KidsStop!

Near the alpha-chair, a magician was showing a group of kids some card tricks at a low table. By this time, a large appreciative audience had formed a semi-circle around the tireless dancers. The crowd rested their elbows and handbags on bookshelves while they clapped in time to the beat and took pictures with their cell-phone cameras. The joy in the library was palpable, creating a celebratory atmosphere that did full justice to such an uplifting event.

Still smiling at the happy scene, I moved to a slightly quieter part of the library. As I walked through the branch, I admired side displays of new books and DVD’s, a generous CD collection, and offerings in Farsi, Gujarati, and Urdu.

The ESL section contained a lot of shiny new books, as did the Teen nook in the southeast corner of the building. A few steps away from the Teen’s L-shaped sofa unit was a separate Quiet Study Room. However, it wasn’t obligated to be silent that afternoon because it was hosting a big spread of samosas and salad.

My last stop at my last branch was a comfortable perch on a black leather chair in the reading lounge. Sitting beside the bank of south-facing windows, I sorted out which treasures I was going to carry home in my new library bag and let the buzz of the opening settle over my shoulders.

I felt a little sad when I realized that every branch on my 2006 library map had now been crossed off. I’m going to miss the anticipation of discovering new libraries. Although I still have a lot more work to do on the project, such as expanding earlier blog posts, checking out the bookmobiles, and adding better photographs, I take comfort in the fact that I finished the task I started. May this blog be the wordiest love letter ever written to The Toronto Public Library!

* Note: In 2010, Urban Affairs branch was still open and Fort York (2014) and Scarborough Civic Centre (2015) had not materialized yet.

In 2007, I wrote about Deer Park for the first time, describing it as the branch where I received my first Toronto Public Library card only two days after immigrating to Canada. In the intervening years, I had visited Deer Park so frequently that I had stopped noticing its distinctive features. In 2012, I decided to look at it with fresh eyes, as if seeing it for the first time.

At the centre of Deer Park Library was a large checkout station surrounded on all sides by sections of shelving. Starting at the south wall and circling the desk counterclockwise, I walked through a sunny reading area with windows overlooking Saint Clair Avenue. On that busy afternoon, several patrons had drawn chairs right up to the window and propped their feet on the heater covers. A nearby bamboo plant provided calming vibes.

As I passed through aisles of fiction, I rounded the east wall and discovered a Local History Collection that I hadn’t noticed before. Crouching in front of the shelves, a few titles jumped out at me: Mount Pleasant Cemetery – An Illustrated Guide, Opportunity Road: Yonge Street 1860-1939, and A Short History of the Deer Park Branch Library: 1911-1952 The Store-front Years. The latter was a bound handwritten manuscript by Joan C. Kinsella. A Short History described how Deer Park Library was initially nomadic, moving from one rented storefront to another until finally coming to rest at the current building in 1952.

Progressing through the north side of the library, what came into view were rows of non-fiction (including a full ESL collection), DVD’s and videos, the French section, reading tables, study carrels, and computer terminals.

The west side contained the children’s section, which had a low wall separating it from the main entryway. On a previous visit, I had seen an exhausted man asleep on the red reclining chair beside the low wall, but the recliner was empty in 2012.

On top of a long shelf near the recliner rested a dragon. What I liked about this dragon was that it appeared to be made by hand. The dragon-crafter had utilized material from old backpacks or raincoats to fashion a fearsome creature with red and purple horns.

The shelf closer to the window supported an even quirkier decoration: an oatmeal-coloured woolen castle! Created by April Quan in 2000, the castle complex had a green felt base and some fuzzy trees surrounding it.

To the right of the entrance, a yellow-green dragon was sewn to the wall. The portcullis was a quarter of the way down, and the main doors were partly open, the silver ring handles waiting for a servant to pull them shut at sundown. Meanwhile, a princess stood in the castle entrance to watch a developing conflict between the dragon and a knight in a purple cape.

I couldn’t tell what materials comprised the underlying structure of the castle, but I was really taken by the fact that all the walls and turrets were covered in wool. (Beware invading knights on saddled moths!)

One squat turret hosted a wizard in a high window, while a couple of the taller turrets had princesses in them. As an alternative to the crenelated parapets, some of the towers were topped with red roofs in the shape of upside-down cones. The circular courtyard was empty but seemed an ideal venue for a stately feast.

My day brightened by a serious library with a knitted castle, I put my notes away and mentally thanked Deer Park for providing my first TPL library card as well as for entertaining me with two kinds of dragons and an owl flying out of a turret.

If you like your libraries playfully Gothic and full of 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 that 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 in Margaret Penman’s A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983, p. 30).

Although the griffin’s beak could be seen as intimidating, the creature’s potential ferocity is what protects baby foxes and owls. A griffins’ traditional role has been to defend treasure from marauders, a duty that a cheesy grin cannot facilitate.

Equally protective, the lion sculpture shelters a mouse and a deer.

To honour or possibly appease 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 maybe it was an overly dainty snack for a lion and a griffin. Beef hotdogs with hot peppers from a street vendor might have been a more substantial choice.

When I entered the well-guarded library, four circular tiers soared above me in a rising barrel pattern. Enjoying the atrium despite some mild 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 libraryscape. Every single table was spoken for, and inquisitive patrons crowded around the information desk with questions for the staff.

One of the most coveted spots was a 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 backyard below. I liked the feeling of simultaneously floating above the city yet remaining grounded near the busy intersection of College and Spadina.

The second floor contained Chinese and French collections 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 flew into the world of film.

After admiring the man’s portable 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. There, patrons could 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.

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 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.

The magical literary universe of the basement put me under its spell from the moment I saw it. It was Alice in Wonderland meets fairy-tale castle meets LED sconces of poetic doom. Freshly nourished by Lillian H. Smith’s basement, my imagination applauded the interior decoration for freeing itself from the shackles of being sensible.

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. All of them should have torches to celebrate their mystery!

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

Parliament Street Library impressed me as an unassuming centre of learning with a high standard of service. From the tree-trunk street furniture (recycled from Regent’s Park demolition rubble) to containers of crayons provided for the kids, Parliament Street’s attention to detail sent a powerful message of care.

When I arrived at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning in 2011, the library was already busy. Almost all of the early arrivals were men who quickly staked their claims 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.

Sharing my fellow patrons’ library enthusiasm, I started my personal tour of Parliament Street in 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 projects undertaken by the Ward 28 Greenspace Committee).

I liked how the east wing reached out to lovers of diverse languages, offering materials in Spanish, French, Tamil, Chinese, Vietnamese, Somali, and Amharic. Music enthusiasts also had their personal 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 pleasure to hear slightly muffled melodies coming from next door.

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. 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!

In addition to the lively tapestry, 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 traditional story can still generate buzz!

It would have been fun to hear the story, but I only had enough time to see the second floor before I left. As I walked up the steps, I remembered an ESL field trip to this library that took place in 2005. Some very helpful staff at Parliament Street gave a large group of LINC students from my centre an orientation, and the nerd in me thrilled at the sight of so many students receiving their first shiny blue library cards! (On my 2011 visit, an ESL class was in progress in the same room where my former students had filled out library application forms en masse).

More good work was taking place on the second floor, which also housed the Toronto Centre for Community Learning and Development as well as the Neighbourhood Information Post. I learned from one of Parliament’s librarians that many patrons visit the Information Post to fill out forms, pick up mail, and receive welfare cheques — a crucial service that responds to bureaucracies’ demand for permanent addresses. This is quiet heroism at its best.

All in all, I came away from my Parliament Street visits 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 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.