Breakfast in Scarborough

Visiting Weston Library was like stepping into a fairytale. Flower boxes, stones, and a vine-blessed trellis set the stage for enchantment, and the spell continued once I ventured inside the old section of the library. Constructed in 1914 with a Carnegie grant of $10,000, the structure’s simple elegance gave me a spiritual lift.

The old brick walls held exquisitely-coloured arched windows. Each one was decorated with multicoloured glass shields bearing the names of dead white male writers: Johnson, Ruskin, Shakespeare, Moore, Wordsworth, Dickens, Scott, Tennyson, Stevenson, Lamb, Burns, Chaucer, and Milton (among others). One window’s shield didn’t have a name underneath it, which gives me hope that it’s reserved for a live radical feminist of colour. What lively debates the windows’ representatives could have!

While most of the panes looked out onto the streets outside, one window offered a view of the staff’s office. This puzzling addition to one side of the building somewhat spoiled the fairy-tale effect for me. Why did they tack it on this way? It meant that after I spent some exalted moments contemplating the giants of literature, I suddenly fell to earth with a thud at the sight of filing cabinets, piles of paper, and a plastic snack tray. Also, I was distracted by a tempting spread of grapes, cookies, Cadbury fingers and doughnuts on the other side of the glass. A library staff member walked by and grabbed a morsel, casting a slightly apprehensive glance at me. Was I the snack police? Was I researching the dietary habits of librarians? I decided to move away from the window before the next snacker arrived.

The new wing of Weston Library, added in 1981, was to the right of the entrance and held the ESL, Teens, Spanish, and French collections. Finally, the basement level contained a spacious Children’s Department with murals that covered three walls. While Shakespeare, Lamb, and Milton kept it real upstairs, the pantheon of my favourite mural downstairs included Bambi, Snow White, a Wild Thing, Babar the Elephant, Winnie the Pooh, Curious George, Peter Rabbit, The Cat in the Hat, and Paddington Bear with a jar of marmalade. I wished someone had asked the muralist to match the writers above with characters in the basement. I see Chaucer and Burns as Wild Things, Dickens as Curious George, and Wordsworth as Bambi.

From murals to stained-glass windows, Weston Library was a delightful site to visit. I enjoyed feeling connected to a part of history just on the precipice of change before the first World War. Its square simplicity and implied faith in an unchanging literary canon reminded me of a quotation from L. M. Montgomery’s journal. In Lucy Maud Montgomery: The Gift of Wings, Montgomery’s biographer, Mary Rubio, cites a January 1932 journal entry which describes the world experienced by Montgomery’s generation compared to what two previous generations experienced: “They lived their lives in a practically unchanged and apparently changeless world. Nothing was questioned — religion — politics — society — all nicely mapped out and arranged and organized. And my generation! . . . Everything we once thought immoveable wrenched from its pedestal and hurled to ruins . . . our whole world turned upside down and stirred up — before us nothing but a welter of doubt and confusion and uncertainty.” (422-23). Gazing at windows which have endured for almost a century, I hope Lucy Maud would have been comforted to know that they are still here, even though the view is different.

Upon first glimpse of Richview Library, I noticed windows that looked like disposable razorblade containers, stone benches among the greenery, and tiled columns near the entrance. While the tall trees outside grew damper and damper, library patrons kept pouring into Richview branch. The long straight lines of the interior design provided contrast to the soggy swirl of rain outside.

On the main level, earnest study groups had taken ownership of the big tables, loading them down with heavy textbooks. The students conversed in many different languages, reflecting the diversity of the Islington and Eglinton area. Fortunately, Richview’s multilingual resources were large and varied, with French, Polish, Korean, Italian, and Chinese most heavily represented. There was even a Chinese “Best Bets” shelf, something I hadn’t seen before. It boasted a translated version of Greg Mortenson’s Three Cups of Tea, which I’d read recently. Urdu, Ukrainian, Spanish, Russian, and Croation were also contenders, accompanied by a huge ESL section.

Not to be outdone by so much linguistic abundance, the Romance collection was teeming with charming cads and swooning heroines. My two favourite titles were Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights and The Tycoon’s Very Personal Assistant. (I imagined imperilled paperweights and office supplies about to be swept from desktops).

None of the romance novels had “Local History Room” in their titles, and the no-nonsense research room upstairs seemed to explain why. However, a self-portrait by Norval Morrisseau beside the Local History Room’s door really enlivened this quiet corner of the library. I was fascinated by the red circles connected by a dark line to Morrisseau’s shoulders and floppy multicoloured hat.

The upstairs level also contained an art gallery lined with low wooden benches. Most of the exhibited paintings were the work of artist Wain Fun Ku, a man who had returned to his passion thirty years after leaving art school. Near the gallery was a large computer lab next to an enclosed Quiet Study Area (both completely full). I felt uplifted by Ku’s story as well as by the concentrated Saturday studiousness in the three rooms. Gallery, lab, and study area seemed to embody the hard work, the hours devoted, the incremental steps taken towards fulfilling cherished personal dreams.

Taking leave of the inspiring scene upstairs, I took the elevator down two levels and emerged into a spacious lobby where a row of empty trolleys waited to be filled with books for re-shelving. The hallway leading to the Children’s Department had a row of small desks lining one wall, creating a Quiet Study Area for this floor as well. The main room was a lovely wooden den of a place with some bricks for extra sturdiness. An alcove devoted to picture books and two red sofas contributed to the warm atmosphere, but the best detail of all was a carpeted ampitheatre in a corner. Perfect for storytelling performances, three tiers of steps provided the audience with carpeted perches. From Rome to Richview is not so far, especially when we have libraries to feed our imagainations!

Maria A. Shchuka Library seemed right at home in the thick of busy street life at the intersection of Eglinton Avenue West and Northcliffe Boulevard. As I sat beside Stewart in front of tall windows facing Eglinton Avenue, I watched the hectic swirl of traffic, transient groups of bus passengers, and passing pedestrians. I wondered if the Portuguese bakery across the street sold custard tarts and then turned my attention to the continuous bench that hugged the west and north walls.

Wanting to see how far the bench extended, I left my armchair to survey the main level. In the northeast corner was an imaginative children’s area with unconventionally-shaped furniture. The small tables were neither round nor square; instead, they looked like amoebas gently shaped into blobby flowers (with chairs to match). At floor level, I admired a quirky rocking-lounger as well as the lowest bookshelves I’ve ever seen. They actually resembled cubbyholes more than shelves, as they were cleverly tucked under the window bench on the west wall. This thoughtful arrangement placed small picture books within easy reach of toddlers.

Also attractive to Maria Shchuka’s youngest patrons but much more inaccessible was a rattle-tailed dragon with a peekaboo mirror on one foot and a flower pocket on the other. Custom-made to fit in the pocket, a soft daisy dangled from the dragon by a braid. Although this plush creature had wings, its legs were shackled by clear plastic restraints which were bolted to the top of a free-standing bookshelf.

Feeling sorry for the dragon’s restricted life, I walked up to the second floor. The upstairs shades had been drawn against the late afternoon sun, so everything looked more gray and silvery than downstairs. Computers lined two sides of a small atrium, making it difficult to peer all the way down into the reception area below. Maybe the designers were worried about pranksters dropping paperballs on people from on high. Though Maria A. Shchuka stopped being Head Librarian in 1996, she might have shaken her finger at mischievous types and shooed them into the spacious Learning Centre or the Adult Literacy Room. Besides, with so much to study at this branch — the Rita Cox Black and Caribbean Heritage Collection plus books in Chinese, Italian, Turkish, Portugese, Tagalog, Spanish, Russian, and Vietnamese — who could complain that boredom had driven them to lob paper missiles over the atrium?

Trowell Avenue ranks high on my list of pleasing street names, and the charm of Evelyn Gregory Library lived up to its address. A stand-alone building with a low roof, big trees on the lawn, and a large rock beside a picnic bench near the entrance, this branch was well-integrated into its residential surroundings. It looked like just another house on the block.

Completed in 1968, Evelyn Gregory’s interior also indicated a domestic scale. Its central checkout area had a warm brick wall behind it, which complemented the low ceiling and informal atmosphere.

To the left of the staff’s friendly bailiwick was the teens and children’s zone. The south wall of this section contained a large window, its prospect showing a square of dirt and its group of trees, greenish light pushing through the canopy. While I was gazing out the window, a ghoulish scream made me jump. I swiveled to my left and saw a grayish-green zombie face on a computer screen. Embarrassed by the attention, a teenager in a headscarf hastily turned down the volume of the scream.

Composure restored, I walked to the west wall to study a mural which was most likely painted during the childhood of the sheepish horror-fan’s parents. Against a pale blue background, kids were sledding, skating, building sand castles, playing leapfrog, and blowing bubbles. Many of them had long helmet hair like characters in Skooby Doo cartoons.

The east side of the library didn’t have any murals, but there were inviting carpeted ledges that jutted out from the base of two sets of wide windows. The ledge was too narrow to be an out-and-out bench, but there was just enough room to provide a purchase for patrons determined to perch. One young reader had snagged the coveted corner where the two ledges met to form a right angle. This spot afforded a more secure surface from which to lean backwards against the warm glass and fall into the pages of a book.

Tall shelves near the prime reading corner were filled with non-fiction materials, including Spanish, Portugese, and ESL offerings. A few shelves away, Evelyn Gregory’s DVD collection was especially robust, so Stewart and I were both able to find a movie we liked for a double-feature later that evening. I checked out Pineapple Express and The Secret Life of Bees and then we returned to the shaded sidewalks of Trowell Avenue.

A striking mural stopped me in my tracks as I walked through a side passageway to the entrance of Mount Dennis Library. I saw a man and a woman facing each other in the middle of a green field. A community of daffodils gathered in the foreground, and two trees framed the scene, transforming actual pillars into brown trunks. Painted wooden creatures had been riveted to the surface of the mural, creating a bulky applique effect. The riveted animals included a seagull, a cardinal, a raccoon looking at a ladybug, a wolfish dog, a bee hive on a branch, and a chipmunk (also on a branch). Brightly painted bees, ladybugs, and a butterfly added even more character to the picture.

After I passed through one of the entrance doorways, I noticed a curious detail on the vertical jamb between the two doors. Someone had painted a giraffe’s head near the top of the jamb, its ears and horns jutting into the lintel. Yellow and orange dots cascaded down the length of the jamb, suggesting a long neck. I really liked how the artist had seen a giraffe in the shape of an ordinary door jamb because it reminded me to look for whimsy in the day-to-day.

The main floor of Mount Dennis branch was one long rectangle in soft cream, demure yellow, and brown. With wide aisles and plenty of open space, the interior was restful if slightly empty-looking in places. High windows facing Weston Road provided a sunlit view of a wooden trellis that called out for grape vines (and a paint job) on the sidewalk. I also noticed that the interior paint was peeling in a few spots, and that water damage had taken out a chunk of the ceiling near the checkout desk. However, the main level was still a pleasant place to study in English, Spanish, Korean, Portuguese, or Vietnamese.

The basement level contained the children’s section and a series of giant wooden jigsaw pieces on the east wall. My favourite puzzle piece had a dark red background and was decorated with a diverse circle of children’s faces surrounded by painty handprints in green, purple, black, yellow, and blue. Lining the walls of a narrow corridor outside the children’s room was an art display called the “100 Dreams Project” which perfectly complemented the jigsaw piece. Kindergarten artists such as Adesh, Ashanti, Caleb, Demetri, Issacher, Jenny, Jah-Shy, Lotus, Megan, Marcus, Nawall, Shivani, Stephany, Yasmin, and Zipporah had painted kites, monsters, ice-cream cones, volcanoes, babies, guinea pigs, and a purple ball on small square canvases.

Mount Dennis Library was a congenial host for this exuberant exhibit by students from Dennis Avenue Community School. I hope it inspires all of us patrons to colour our walls with dreams!

To enrich your Sheridan Mall shopping experience, check out Black Creek Library on the lower level between a denture clinic and a dry cleaners. A resident of the mall since 2002, Black Creek branch shares its architect, G. Bruce Stratton, with fellow mall-libraries Woodside Square and Bayview.

When I visited a couple of Saturdays ago, I found Black Creek’s cream and brown colours very inviting, their warmth drawing me into a comfortable mall-cave. Stratton truly fulfilled the design concept described in its website: “bright and warm with flowing lines”. Supporting the goal of cosiness, the patrons really seemed at home in the newspaper lounge. Every computer was taken, including one screen surrounded by a spirited group of kids hooting at You-tube videos.

Liveliness was further supported by a dragon with flame-shaped eyebrows, a nearby bubble-gum rocket, and a series of wooden cutouts on the south wall that depicted happy kids with their arms up in the air. Two grey cardboard castles provided slightly more subdued decoration, but a closer look revealed a courtyard that sparkled with multicoloured glitter and a blue clay moat.

The most distinctive feature of Black Creek was a magical reading zone whose borders were defined by a semi-circular wall about four feet high and a tiled pillar opposite which supported a round structure overhead. Stewart compared the latter to an exaggerated showerhead. Hanging from the tiled showerhead were delicate lights enclosed in purple and dark-red glass which illuminated a round table and small chairs below. Completing the stylish nook were shelves built into the inside curve of the wall.

Stewart was getting library-weary after visiting three in one afternoon, so before leaving I just took quick glance at the ESL collection (meaty) and the multilingual shelves (diverse). Languages on offer were Spanish, Italian, Chinese, French, and Vietnamese. I also stopped to consider how Black Creek influences the atmosphere of North York Sheridan Mall.

Ever since I saw my first mall library in Canada five years ago, I’ve always considered the idea somewhat odd. Borrowing books seems so out of place in a zone where everything else is for sale. However, I’m becoming more and more appreciative of the fact that library branches like Black Creek provide a welcome patch of public space in a larger establishment almost exclusively devoted to private profit. In this way, a library “redeems” a mall instead of tainting itself with the surrounding commercialism. I think we need glimpses of the immaterial in a material world.

Recently relocated from a mall down the street, Jane/Sheppard now occupies the site of a former police station. I had missed the grand opening last April, so I was excited to finally visit the branch a week ago and enjoy its refreshing newness. Even the carpet smelled new!

Built in the shape of a glass cube by Cannon Design, the simplicity of Jane/Sheppard’s visual impact appealed to me. Despite a floor space of only 7,000 square feet, the interior felt uncluttered, calm, and airy. An antidote to claustrophobia, it was very easy to breathe freely in this elegant branch. The combination of abundant glass, sunlight, and subtle whites and greens led me to two similes: a translucent piece of key lime pie and a classy paperweight for a giant (who likes key lime pie).

A small number of patrons dotted the libraryscape, so it wasn’t hard to find a place to sit and look around. I chose a long booth with a wide table designed to accommodate laptops. I’d never seen booths like these in a library and found them quite innovative. What’s more, it seemed that everyone’s seating needs were covered; nice low chairs for magazine readers facing Sheppard Avenue, a window seat on the west wall, and cushioned blocks in yellow, red, and green for the smaller kids. Crouched near the blocks were three dense, low-to-the-ground animals in dark grey leather: an elephant, a hippo, and a rhino.

Reluctantly rising from my comfortable booth, I left Jane/Sheppard with a sense of appreciation for its quiet, undemanding presence. What a successful addition to Toronto Public Library’s infrastructure!

My post title may have made York Woods Library sound like a contestant in a pageant, but I doubt such a solid, functional structure would identify with beauty competitions. When Stewart saw the thick exposed concrete on the interior, he said, “This Brutalist style reminds me of my local library in Scotland in the 1970’s.” Brutalism was new to me, but a quick Wikipedia foray confirmed that York Woods, which was built in 1970, possessed Brutalist concrete-centric blockiness in spades. (The article mentioned that Prince Charles is a prominent Brutalist opponent, so if he ever wants to join the 99-branch club, he’ll need to be put on tranquilizers before visiting this branch in northwest Toronto).

Behind the wide checkout desk at York Woods was a sign that invited everyone to “Enjoy Cricket, Lovely Cricket with The York Woods Library.” In fact, we had just seen a lively, informal game in progress in the parking lot, with a tennis ball standing in for a cricket ball. The community-friendly vibe was consistent throughout the inside of the building as well, from the large variety of languages available on second floor (including Urdu, Spanish, Hindi, Tamil, Polish, Somali among others) to the Learning Centre’s computer lab and the Rita Cox Black and Caribbean Heritage Collection.

Near the Leading to Reading Office on the main floor was a Victory over Violence Exhibit. According to VOV’s website, this program “hopes to inspire young people throughout the world to identify and counteract the root causes of violence”. Posters and large freestanding cardboard displays defined passive violence, verbal abuse, oppression, and social apathy. I was especially struck by Martin Luther King Junior’s quotation: “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

Promoting early reading skills is definitely something that matters to the Toronto Public Library, as evidenced in the large children’s section at York Woods branch. This part of the library contained a Children’s West Indian and Black Heritage Collection as well as materials reflecting the linguistic diversity of the neighbourhood. A solid window bench waited for readers beside a window overlooking a community garden. And decorating a nearby wall was a cloth jack-in-the box with bells on his cap and a yellow and red ruffle around his neck. Smiling Jack seemed pleased to have sprung out of his box into such a dynamic library.

Having thoroughly enjoyed my tour of York Woods, I went to fetch Stewart, who was patiently reading in an armchair with a view of the garden and a Baptist church. Thank you kind Stewart for being there on my 75th TPL visit!

Taylor Memorial Library started with a love story. In 1962, Fred Taylor donated his 1921 family home to the Scarborough Public Library Board “in memory of (his) first wife, Florence Nightengale Taylor” (TPL website for Taylor Memorial). After twenty-two years, 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 last week, 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 in the white space between the picture and the frame. A brief historical account of Taylor Memorial was below Florence’s picture, and to the right were framed photographs of Fred and his second wife, Kate.

I was sorry that the Taylor’s original 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 over one side of the fireplace. The artist, Nikita Marner, presented the viewer with a tall fairy-tale cottage distinguished by a timbered exterior. Before I knew that Taylor Memorial had once been an actual house, I had noticed that the current edifice looked more home-like than many of the other TPL branches. I had written in my notebook that Taylor Memorial’s exterior was like “a slightly official-looking cottage.”

As I took in the library’s interior, I was impressed by how faithfully it upheld the spirit of Fred Taylor’s priceless gift: a home as a sanctuary for quiet reading and reflection. I hope Fred would have been pleased that I found Taylor Memorial to be the least institutional of all the seventy-four branches I’ve visited so far. Each piece of furniture was just right for settling down for a good long read, from the lawn chairs on the covered patio by the garden, to the comfortable high-backed armchairs in front of the fireplace, to a 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) adorned the interior space. On the south wall, an arched stained glass window lent an almost sacred element to the relaxing atmosphere. Possibly inspired by the floral embellishments on Florence Taylor’s photo, glass butterflies and a few birds fluttered attendance on a flowering vine which filled most of the window.

With so many high windows, refined paintings, garden views, and inviting surfaces to sit on, Taylor Memorial branch invited peace into my 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 place. Its aesthetics of sitting are remarkable and bear testimony to the loving spirit of a generous library benefactor, Fred Taylor.

Located next to The Flower Emporium at Parkway Mall (North York), Maryvale Library shares a lot in common with its mall-library cousin, Eglinton Square. Both branches opened in the 80’s (Maryvale in 1987, Eglinton Square in 1983), occupy one room, and don’t put on airs. Marvyale even has the same wooden letters spelling “CHILDREN’S” on the wall, although the Cat in the Hat inhabits the letter “C” instead of a monkey. The Cat’s jaunty bow-tie and mischievous expression welcomed playfulness into the library.

On a high shelf near the irreverent Cat stood a fold-out series of Peter Sis’ illustrations of Sleep Safe Little Whale by Miriam Schlein. A wide variety of sleeping animals appeared in the paper panorama, but I found the panda bear mother and her cub in a hollow tree especially endearing. Another nearby shelf provided a platform for a white mama rabbit with a baby stitched to her arms. The older rabbit wore a pink ruffled apron trimmed with a floral pattern, and the inside of her ears were lined with same floral cloth. Possibly the pair were dressed up for a party, as both had bows sewn on their foreheads at the point where their ears started to sprout.

Throughout the library, a certain randomness to the decorations prevailed. Wooden birds on stands faced Lord of the Rings posters on the other side of the room. I saw a Renoir print, some aging travel posters, and an odd paper-craft item (a square within a square with a dangling tail) over the check-out desk. Clutching the registration sign overhead was a superhero toy with a cape.

Despite my lukewarm response to the Maryvale’s decor, I don’t mean imply that the value of a library lies in its appearance. After all, Maryvale branch is a friendly, well-stocked facility that offers materials in Chinese, Greek, French, Arabic, Tamil, and Hindi. It just seems unfair to me that some branches look smarter than others. For example, why does Beaches Library have a a timbered ceiling and a window seat overlooking Kew Gardens while Bridlewood Library has a rocket made of construction paper? I realize it’s not as simple as “wealthy neighbourhood equals elegant library”. Some of the most lovely branches — Riverdale, Kennedy/Eglinton, McGregor Park, Malvern, Woodside Square — are in relatively deprived areas. My wish for wall-flower libraries like Maryvale is for them to be models of beauty in a wasteland of urban malls.

Building on a very brief sketch of Spadina Library that I posted in October 2007, I’d like to offer a more complete picture. On previous visits, the branch had been packed with people, but last Tuesday it wasn’t desperately crowded. I was able to gaze at dream catchers, artwork, and the extensive Native People’s Collection without annoying too many patrons who might need to navigate around me.

As a viewer taking her time to look around carefully, I really appreciated the decorative unity of the First Nations, Inuit and nature-themed objects which rested on shelves and hung suspended in the air. Two upright hand puppets with Inuit features and fur-lined parkas (cleverly embodied by the use of freestanding black bookends) stood a shelf away from a miniature canoe woven from plant fibres. A flamingo marionette hung next to an alligator marionette, and a striking assortment of dream catchers kept aerial company with a flying wooden duck. Closer to the ground, librarians had created a path to the children’s collection by laying down playful animal tracks on circles of blue, green, and yellow paper. The book-loving animals which had left their paw and hoof prints on the carpet included bears, raccoons, and deer.

Animal themes were amplified in the vibrant collection of First Nations artwork on the walls. Placed overhead at well-spaced intervals were intense portraits in solid colours of the following creatures: owls, spirit fish, turtles, baby robins, a bear on his hind legs reaching for a bee hive, a frog catching flies, a redwinged blackbird, a squirrel, a cricket, a raccoon, and a porcupine. Eleanor Kanasawe, a painter who exhibits on Manitoulin Island, created all of these beautiful pieces, and a couple of animal paintings by two other artists rounded out the collection. I loved the strong colours and the way each piece retained stand-alone integrity while remaining part of an integrated whole.

Moving down the walls from art to books, the Native People’s Collection included novels and non-fiction material about culture, art, religion, history, and languages (plus DVD’s and videos on these subjects). The reference shelves displayed dictionaries for students of Cree, Micmac, Mohawk, Anishinaabe, Metis Cree, and Chippewa. Although Spadina Library’s multilingual collection was small, it did contain language kits for most of the languages listed above, as well as Tlingit, Cherokee, Persian, French, Spanish, Vietnamese, Somali, and Hungarian. Crouching on the floor to study the kits, the plastic boxes seemed so hopeful to me; they promised travel and communicative adventure. Inspired by the possibilities of new words and new perspectives, I put away my notebook and made tracks to Spadina subway station.

Danforth/Coxwell branch hummed with energy from the moment I walked in the door. Kids raced around gathering books, strollers abounded, and every corner of the building hosted a reader. Danforth/Coxwell seemed the place to be on a summer weekday afternoon.

On the west side of the main level, a lime-green gorilla hung from the ceiling next to a fuzzy pelican in green, orange, and black. Near the west wall, three carpeted steps led up to a small platform that supported shelves of picture books. A father was sprawled on one of the steps, reading a story to his two boys. In addition to the comfortable steps, three solid window benches provided yet more literary opportunities and doubled as miniature stages for self-expression. One little girl was so happy in the library that she was jumping up and down on a window seat in her flip-flops! A cheerleader for literacy!

Happily, I noted three more wooden window benches on the other side of the main floor, which held the teen and adult sections. All three window perches faced Danforth Avenue, where passersby were bracing their umbrellas for an imminent thunderstorm. Appreciating my sheltered position, I walked between tall shelves of fiction and non-fiction, noting the extensive Chinese and French collections. I eventually came to rest on a window seat as the sky darkened outside. After sorting through a stack of library materials accumulated during my self-guided tour (which to borrow, which to resist?), I got checked out and then walked up to the second floor.

The upper level contained offices, washrooms, and a community room where I once spent a few hours volunteering for an English Conversation Circle. I don’t know if the group still exists, but the memory was another reminder of how much the Toronto Public Library helps newcomers and more established Torontonians alike! Hooray! Makes me want to cheer!

Inside Eglinton Square Mall is a food court. Inside that food court is a Manchu Wok. And right beside Manchu Wok is a library! I have visited Eglinton Square Library dozens of times, but last week I decided to take a closer look.

A no-frills branch in one square room, the library was crowded at six pm on a weeknight. Numerous patrons had staked their claims on various study-territories, spreading out their papers wide enough to ensure sufficient personal space.

Korean, Chinese, and Tamil materials constituted most of the multilingual section. Hindu videos were also represented, but the Greek collection had been shipped to Albert Campbell branch and the Gujarati collection to Downsview branch.

Three sets of low shelves arranged in a boxy “U” shape created an alcove for the Children’s Section. The main decoration was a set of chunky wooden letters spelling “Children’s” attached to the wall. A wooden monkey sat in the lower curve of the capital “C”.

The Romance collection seemed very extensive in proportion to the size of the branch. (What is it about mall libraries?) With lots of titles to choose from, let me conclude this post with a selection to consider: Beast of Desire, Sex as a Second Language, Perfectly Saucy, and Dirty Harriet Rides Again.

Palmerston Library, a modest-sized branch just west of Bathurst on Bloor, was a relaxing place to spend a couple of hours in the city. A considerable number of fellow Torontonians seemed to share my sentiment, as the main room (square with white brick walls) was filled to capacity with readers and computer users. What saved the all-white interior from being overly institutional was a display of Summer Reading Club illustrations near the entrance. These pictorial book reports created by young readers gave testimony to time machines, fire engines, subway cars, three little pigs, a dragon, and a “vacation under the volcano.”

A few more playful decorations livened up the space to the left of the entrance. A purple wizard kite flew overhead in a floppy purple hat that seemed part-toque, part-nightcap. Wire-rim spectacles and a long gray beard further enhanced his scholarly image, and he had tucked his hands into drawn-on sleeves. Actually, his arms were no more than suggestions; 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. Next to the wizard was a much smaller kite, a multicoloured fish with a propeller-like tail.

Palmerston branch, which opened in 1971, had initially been a children’s library (see TPL’s website). The kids’ books were indeed plentiful, including lots of French ones, but I was surprised to find loose bare sofa cushions on the floor instead of carpeted window seats and other amenities common in the majority of branches I’ve visited.

The adult section offered a good many Korean materials and to a lesser extent, Spanish ones. On the wall near the ESL shelves were two important notice boards: Newcomer Information and Volunteer Opportunities. 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. I couldn’t see Honest Ed’s corny brilliance from my table near the computers, but I did enjoy the view of the back of some red brick buildings along Bloor. They reminded me of the rear view of late 19th century storefronts in my hometown square of Liberty, Missouri. (My mother once devoted a whole series of paintings to these architectural shapes one summer).

Before I left Palmerston to meet a friend, I wanted to see the basement level which housed a meeting room and theatre. However, the door leading downstairs was locked, possibly because no specific events were scheduled that day. Not overly daunted, I tucked my book about the moon and a DVD biography of Charles Darwin into my backpack and rejoined the pedestrian traffic along Bloor.

Earlier in the week I paid a visit to Northern District Library. The vast main floor of this 1975 building reminded me of a university library, and to wander among its extensive shelves took a pleasingly long time. An hour passed before I realized I’d better wrap up my notes and go fetch some salad for dinner.

The grid pattern of the main level’s white ceiling looked like an upside-down waffle. The flat lights were the waffle’s indentations and the beams which framed the light-grids were the raised ridges. As I walked under the pale waffle, I passed big leather couches near the entrance and headed to the large Children’s Area in the southeast corner. Reading benches were placed near the tall windows, creating handy places to perch when the call to read struck. I liked the inclusive display of books propped on top of a non-fiction shelf: Goddesses, Heroes and Shamans, Sikhism, and Many Ways: How Families Practice Their Beliefs and Religions.

I was also impressed by a large piece of functional art in the Children’s Area. Titled “Appleapes” and made of wood, it featured a red border that framed an apple tree and five apple-loving apes. The apple tree was on the left side and hosted a woodpecker on its trunk. A big mama ape occupied the majority of the composition, filling the lower middle and right portions. Clutching an apple in the digits of each lower limb, she also had a row of coat pegs and hooks integrated into her body. Above the mama primate were four babies hanging from the red wooden border overhead. They, too, had apples in their clutches.

As I meandered through the rest of the library, I marvelled at the size of the foreign language collections: French, Serbian, Chinese, and Estonian. There used to be a Japanese collection as well, but a notice advised that it had been moved to North York Library. ESL and Literacy materials abounded, and a North Toronto Local History Section was available for researchers to dig into.

The Skylight Gallery upstairs consisted of a semi-circular stretch of wall that curved underneath (surprise!) a grand skylight. Nothing was on display when I visited except one piece near the washrooms. I had some difficulty making out the artist’s name painted in the bottom right corner, but it looked like Tom Lane. With a distinctively tactile appeal, the large canvas was covered in tinted tree bark, and its three-dimensionality was enhanced by protruding mushrooms. Refraining from touching the bark, I trotted back down the stairs and emerged into the afternoon busyness of Yonge and Eglinton.

Last night I walked from my house to Liberty Square Shopping Plaza to check out the freshly renovated Kennedy/Eglinton branch. Architects had transformed the seedy bar that used to sit beside the library into an extension housing a computer lab, community room, reading lounge and automated checkout area. More than doubling the space, the expansion and overall renovation has made Kennedy/Eglinton Library almost unrecognizable. What was once a cramped outpost of learning is now a spacious and handsome establishment that has taken Liberty Sqaure to a much better place.

From the polished tiles in the new entryway to the shiny surface of the computer counters, the entire enterprise radiated concern to offer the best facilities available. Complemented by a dark orange and brown colour-scheme, Kennedy/Eglinton had many textured spaces, corners, and rooms. The variety of furniture included armchairs, a study nook with a three-cornered bench, and a wooden window seat in the children’s section.

Patrons of all ages had come out to experience the new library, and almost every table, computer and study area was in use. As I wandered through the rooms, impressed by how alive the place was, I appreciated the linguistic diversity reflected in nearby shelves of materials in Chinese, Tamil, and Hindi. The quietest room in the library that evening was the community room, where an empty silver square smeared with blue and white icing lay on the sink counter.

Overcoming minor cake disappointment, I mentally thanked the Toronto Public Library system for this expanded branch in my neighbourhood. Built in 1988, I feel certain that Kennedy/Eglinton has always been the busy, friendly library I’ve known since 2002. But the building’s transformation has not only improved its looks; it actually makes the area feel better and safer. 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, ignoring signs that said, “Do not sit near the drop box”. I feel relieved that a former tavern tarnished by reports of serious assault is now a place of learning and community sanctuary. Long may its light shine!

In a blog-entry dated October 26, 2007, I wrote that Deer Park was the branch where I received my first Toronto Public Library card a couple of days after we immigrated to Canada in 2002. Since then, I’ve visited Deer Park so frequently that I stopped noticing its distinctive features. Last week I decided to look at it with fresh eyes, as if seeing it for the first time.

The centre of Deer Park Library is a large checkout station surrounded by library sections on all sides. 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 last Monday, 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 saw a Local History Collection, something I’d never 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 which 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, 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” (“Breakfast in Scarborough” October 2007). My previous post mentioned that I’d once seen an exhausted man asleep on the red reclining chair beside the low wall, but last week the recliner was empty.

A dragon rested on top of one of two long shelves in the kid’s section. 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. It was impressive at an adult’s eye-level, so the dragon probably looked even more fierce from a child’s perspective.

The other shelf supported an even quirkier decoration: an oatmeal-coloured woolen castle! 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.

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 serious library with a knitted castle, I put my notes away and walked to the Saint Clair subway station.

In a post dated September 16, 2007, I wrote a brief line about Brookbanks Library, “a quiet branch near a karate school in North York”. I figured a more in-depth description was past due, so I paid a second visit to Brookbanks last Tuesday.

Tucked unobtrusively behind a shopping plaza, the modest building (built in 1968) 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 (similar in design to Mimico Centennial). 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”.

Books and DVD’s in Farsi, French, Chinese, Hindi, Spanish, and Romanian caught my eye on the south wall, just to the right of the entrance. Presumably in response to a shift in local demographics, a couple of posted 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. A matching set, though upholstered in green, were in the fiction and teen section, located on the raised level. Young patrons reading on the floor and lounging on green cushions gave the library a homey, comfortable atmosphere. I liked how nobody was shooing them in the direction of more conventional surfaces like tables and chairs.

I took the ramp back down to the main level, which gave me the opportunity to check out an elaborate mural that stretched across a third of the north wall and most of the west wall. The centerpiece 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 I discovered: the yellow hat of Curious George’s guardian, a trio of capital A’s and B’s, a green monster claw grabbing a purple book, a yellow rabbit, mangos, parrots, a sign that warned of “Snoozing Grues!”, birds with no middles (only legs, beaks, and spectacles), a second descending monster foot (white with pink talons), blue bears, 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 (blue this time) 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, 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 hand on his shoulder. A marketing-savvy librarian had propped a copy of Knut the Baby Polar Bear just below George’s hand.

Taking a final glance around Brookbanks Library, I noticed a fuzzy piranha in green and blue near my left foot. Although its many teeth were made of felt and I wasn’t wearing sandals, I decided it was an excellent time to catch an express bus on York Mills Road.

When I first started blogging about the Toronto Public Library branches, my notes were fairly cursory. Now that I’m deeper into the project (74 branches deeper), I’d like to flesh out those earlier posts into fuller descriptions. In fact, this very post will fill in the details of a previously-visited library, Yorkville, where dignified stone lions guard the front steps.

I learned from a historical display near Yorkville’s vestibule that the building was completed in 1906, making it “Toronto Public Library’s oldest library.” Yorkville was “the first of four libraries built with a $350,000 Carnegie grant . . . in 1903″. City Architect Robert McCallum designed the 1906 library in a “Classical Beaux Arts” style, and I think he made a great choice to go classical. Once I’d made it past the lions, solid interior columns, reassuring square room-sections, and tasteful lemon walls all worked together to create a timeless sense of peace and stability.

As I surveyed the facility from a broad wooden table, it was comforting to feel connected to more than a century of continuous self-education in such a lovely setting. With the front windows revealing a mass of tree leaves, it was easy to imagine away the twenty-first century commercialism of nearby Yonge and Bloor. According to the historical exhibit, when Yorkville branch was constructed, this area was considered the northern part of Toronto. And something of that quieter time and place seemed to remain in the library, the legacy of a slower, less harshly-lit era. I really appreciated the break from honking cars, gadget-addled pedestrians, and insistent storefronts.

To get reacquainted with the library’s offerings, I walked over to the checkout area (noting the high lozenge-shaped lamps like Wychwood’s) and veered left. Next to the DVD section was a portion of Yorkville’s LGBT Special Collection, unique to this branch. On the other side of the room was a substantial French-language section, along with adult fiction and books for teenagers.

Between the first segment of the library and the third (all connected on one level) was the area where I had been sitting. It contained lots of tables, the computers, and a helpful ESL and Adult Literacy collection. The last segment housed the children’s books (including lots of French materials), more shelves of fiction, and a special meeting room that boasted many sets of plays. To take advantage of these textual riches, a play-reading group meets there every Tuesday evening, choosing dramatic works by Eugene O’Neill, Norah Harding, Hanif Kureishi, and Vaclav Havel among others.

As I reversed direction to exit, I paused to admire a cloth ship hanging from the ceiling in the kids’ section. Unlike more prosaic vessels, this ship had a rainbow tail like a kite’s. The tail was pinned to the ceiling in two places, creating a shape like a cursive letter “w” that slanted to the right. Sailing out the door, I reflected on what a treat it was to have visited two Carnegie libraries in as many weeks! Back-to-back nerd delight!

In search of my 74th Toronto Public Library, I took the subway to Keele station and then walked north along Keele until I discovered Annette Street. After turning left, it wasn’t long before I spotted the solid classical form of Annette Street Library, which opened one hundred years ago. Situated beside a Masonic Temple and across from a church building that was for sale, Annette Street branch shared the Edwardian flair of Yorkville Library (1907). The year of Annette Street Library’s construction, 1908, was etched in stone above a grand entrance flanked by two ramps. Two solid Corinthian columns framed the door, adding drama to the mere act of ascending the stone steps into the building. My library, my temple!

Initially descending into the basement level, I came upon an office devoted to the West Junction Historical Society and its archives. The office was closed, but I was able to peer into a lovely darkened room that was waiting for the next day’s scholars to turn up with their notebooks, questions, and visions of the past. This lower level also contained two community rooms concealed behind massive wooden doors with extra-wide frames.

Retracing my steps to the lobby, I went up a short curving staircase to the main level. I liked the heightened suspense created by delaying immediate entry to the library; the staircase provided a feeling of physical elevation, of having to work a little harder and reach a little higher to achieve access to the books. (However, the elevator was also an option). At the top of the steps, the check-out desk was directly in front of me. Getting my visual bearings, I was immediately awestruck by the luxuriously high ceilings that contained cornices decorated with carved ferns. Wow! What elegant mouldings! What classy hanging lamps with glass globes!

A century-old “Edison Home Phonograph” rested in the gap between the wall behind the checkout area and shelves of children’s books behind it. Moving closer to study the historical object, I marvelled at the way such a thin tube supported the giant unfurled cornucopia of a speaker. To the left side of the checkout station (and behind it) was the children’s wing. Filled with a wide variety of books, DVD’s, French materials, and music, this part of the library looked like a well-organized educational playroom that achievement-oriented parents had provided for their many kids. For instance, there was an earnest poster next to shelves of children’s non-fiction which showed the different trees found in Ontario’s Forest Regions: White Birch, Trembling Aspen, Sugar Maple, Sassafras, Tulip Tree, and Eastern White Pine. Next to a collection of CD-Roms (including one on dinosaurs) sat a stuffed Barney. Barney’s fur was mostly reddish purple, but his tummy was green and his six toes yellow. Far above Barney’s head were two train sets facing off on a narrow ledge, a fitting tribute to local history, as West Toronto Junction “began as a Canadian Pacific Railway Stop” (as explained by a sign on the other side of the library).

Before I explored the remainder of the building, I paused at a table to get a greater sense of the atmosphere. It was fairly quiet on the Wednesday afternoon that I visited. Most of the windows were open on that glorious May day, making this library the perfect oasis to savour the end of a long winter. Eggshell-white walls complemented the pearly natural light which filled the interior, making the place calm, clean, open, and airy. All that was missing was a nineteenth-century gentlewoman playing the pianoforte in an Empire gown while her listeners reclined in states of polite repose.

Imaginary pianofortes are well and good, but the library certainly had its practical side. When I got up to investigate the west wing, I noticed a special display of books for job-seekers. (I read in Margaret Penman’s A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983 that the Toronto libraries performed a similar function in the 1930’s, providing a haven for the unemployed and books on topics such as crafts, welding, sales and agriculture (43)). The ESL section was solid, as was the large collection of French books. The west wing also featured a Local History section, which contained titles like Mayors of Toronto and Not a One Horse Town. Supporting the historical theme, portraits of the first five mayors of West Toronto Junction (in office from 1889 to 1898) presided high on a wall near the check-out desk, a quintet of very purposeful-looking gentlemen. And a nearby plaque commemorated the fact that Annette Street branch (formerly Western Branch) was built with funding from Andrew Carnegie and the Public Library Board of the City of West Toronto.

Of Annette Street Library’s many charms, one last feature was a pleasing study area that dipped about two feet below the main floor. I found this carpeted depression to be a great spot to daydream while looking out onto Annette Street. Although chairs were available, one relaxed patron was sitting on the floor beside the window studying the newspaper. I felt fortunate to just sit there while a quiet contentment seemed to fill the sunny room.