My Portable Happy Place

I vowed to hate the Kindle (or Nook or any other e-book vessel).

When they first came out I avoided looking at them or even reading about them. All I knew was that the most beautiful prose in the world was being coldly codified and downloaded like it was an IRS tax form or insurance company data base; and that it then showed up on this soulless rectangle of plastic, flashing on an antiseptic screen.

What was next? A program that would download the text directly into our brains so that we didn't have to go through the bother of reading it word by word?

 I've waxed poetic about my love affair with the physical presence of books before. After all, reading a book is not a purely intellectual experience. There is the crack of opening a brand new book or the heady waft of age from an old campaigner. And there is all the wonderful accoutrements you can use with printed books: bookmarks, pens, different colored highlighters, sticky tags, post-its -- I love me some office supplies.Then, there is my habit of leaving notes to my future self in the margins of some of my favorites.

And then Heir 2 gave me the first A Game of Thrones book to read. It was taking me forever and I realized it wasn't because I was a slow reader, but because I had to constantly stop reading to give my arms a rest from holding the stupid thing up. (Granted, the Game of Thrones books are not as heavy as, say, Truman.)

That was when I started to consider a Kindle.

I began to notice my own book collection. Less than 20 percent of what I had was worth re-reading. The rest I kept...why? I began sorting out what I could pass on and, even though most had been purchased either at bargain prices or second-hand, there was a lot of cash invested and now I was giving them away; most were on subjects in which I had been only mildly interested; a lot were unremarkable or redundant; none of what I'd winnowed out was worthwhile trying to sell. Yet, here I was in the middle of October with boxes of books and no library willing to take them until the spring.

How nice it would be, I thought, if I could just push a button and these mediocre books would just be gone.

And so I finally came to the conclusion that a Kindle would not be such a bad idea; in fact, I wanted one...in fact, I wanted one badly. And so it came to be, via DG for Christmas.

I was hooked after the first book...okay, I was sort of hooked when I was allowed TO NAME MY KINDLE. At first I though that was dorky. But now I get it. It makes perfect sense to name your Kindle because it becomes your very good friend. Okay, it became my very good friend. (Tell me that's not as pathetic as it sounds...)

Now I would no more be without my Kindle than I'd be without my wallet. I'll spend the day without my cellphone, but never, ever without my Kindle. It is my stress reducer, my mini-vacation, my happy place.
I have this mental image of diving into its bright screen whenever I sense, wrongly or not, danger...or boredom and just disappearing.

It has saved me from those vast, black nights spent staring at shadows and replaying every mistake I ever made over and over in my brain. I just reach for my Kindle, prop it up in front of my face and read until I fall asleep -- it shuts itself off if I don't touch it for a certain amount of time. No more hoisting a heavy book over my head; no more turning on bright lights to read in the middle of the night; no more having to wake up all the way at night to turn off a bedside lamp or because the book has fallen over.

Statistically, they say cheap, poor-grade fiction is the most commonly down-loaded type book on a Kindle and, certainly, those are the most promoted and cost-effective reading material available through Amazon. Since, on my budget, even a $1.99 book is out of my price range, I only succumbed once; I must admit, it was pretty awful. So you do have to pay substantially more for good fiction, though nowhere near what a print version would cost. And sometimes you luck out and a good, older book will come up on sale, if you recognize it.

What my financial situation has forced me to do is read more classic literature -- available to download for free from Project Gutenberg. There is also some pretty dated stuff on the site and that's pretty entertaining also, particularly housekeeping books from over 100 years ago. So I have constant access to everything from the Bible to Dickens to Shakespeare to Mrs. Beaton.

I have what has been termed the "reader's Kindle" -- the Paperwhite. I didn't want a Fire -- which is, basically a tablet. I'm not quite sure I understand the purpose of the tablet if you already have a lap top (which I have) and a smart phone (which I don't have, but everyone else seems to). Is there some little ten minute wedge of time that everyone felt was too inconvenient to access the internet with either of these? And, if there is, couldn't you just...I don't know...wait. (This is the kind of observation that makes Heir 2 just stare at me and shake his head.)

A really cool Kindle feature (and maybe other E-book readers, I don't know), especially if you are reading an epic like A Game of Thrones, is that you can highlight a name and find out where that person fits into the story. And, for word geeks like me, you can highlight any word and it's dictionary entry will come up (particularly handy with A Game of Thrones and all those archaic terms -- you just skipped over them, didn't you?). And I can even make notes to myself -- though this is a considerably more cumbersome and you don't get to play with office supplies.

I haven't given up on print books; far from it. Nothing will ever replace the sensory joy of a real book. And I don't like relying totally on anything that requires charging or downloading or has "things" in it that can stop doing what they were designed to do. So I will always keep hard copies of my favorites.

I like thinking that I'm holding practically and entire library in my hand and I like that I can access it whenever and wherever I am. It's like having a storyteller on demand.

And now I can finally read Truman without breaking my arms.

Come Saturday Morning

It's been so long since we've taken a serious Linguini Road Trip. I'm convinced these are essential for my sanity and overall outlook on life.

DG and his Harley

Our numbers have dwindled, what with DG and his Harley and John Boy touring former Eastern Block countries; but we still maintain the usual Linguini Road Trip traditions. For instance, we still stop at every stinkin' road marker, no matter how obscure or far off the main road it may be. This leads to another Linguini tradition: the photo of Dirtman reading road markers.

Not a Red Bud

Today's trip was to the Red Bud Festival in Dayton, Va., and we did actually attend the event...albeit with a few several side trips.

One of those side trips was actually planned. We like to visit other cafes and coffee houses to get ideas and chat with their owners. So our first stop was at the Lost River General Store for French pressed coffee with a shot of hazelnut. The store is owned by Inn at Lost River innkeepers Toni and Ted, who were gracious enough to share their experience and give us a tour of the Inn.

Needless to say, the inn is lovely and the grounds are beautiful...and they have a dog. The general store is filled with works by local artisans and local products...and they have a dog.

Onto Dayton which, as longtime Linguini reader know, was just a clever ruse to cover the fact that we just needed a road trip. So it really didn't matter what was in Dayton or even whether Dayton even existed. Whatever we discovered there was gravy.

Your basic craft fair

I wish I could have captured in this photo the size of these draft horses, not to mention the bling of their glittering tack!

 Did I mention I love woody cars? It's just a thing...

Dayton also contains the best bookstore ever -- all old books (some antiques), the kind with inscriptions, and containing that wonderful old book smell. It reminded me of the old Paper Treasures that used to be in New Market, Va., though not a huge. But everything was nicely categorized and the fiction section was chock full of old, old, old books. These are not for hardcore collectors; hardly a dust jacket to be found and a lot of sprung bindings. If you love to read old, old, old books, they've got plenty. Of course, I had to limit myself.

Then onto....

...another road marker...

...and another road marker...

...sigh.

What we do is never so important as getting out together. Which is why the song that is the title of this post kept running through my head all day.

...and coming home wasn't so bad either...

I call these my Happy Sappy books -- non threatening; a sort of literary petit four.

Dancing on the Edge of the Cloud Wall

As hard as it was for me to muster the holiday spirit this year, it finally did settle in, probably as a side benefit of catching up on rest due to a combination of the weather and our holiday hours at the cafe.

And it's really hard to remain a Grinch during a white Christmas...

To start with, you must know that the impending post-holiday season is looming like Mark Helprin's cloud wall in one of my favorite books, A Winter's Tale. The cloud wall is a massive, impenetrable fog between Manhattan and New Jersey that swallows boats whole and. Or, maybe a better metaphor is Stephen King's Mist, a fog far more treacherous than Helprin's dimension-bending precursor to the Lincoln Tunnel.

A failed attempt to get me into the spirit

In other words, I'm not particularly looking forward to the end-of-the-year bureaucratic nonsense a business has to go through. I mean, it's not like I'm we're Kraft Foods or Nabisco. But we sure could use their accountants. And their money.

Despite the appearance of gray, swirling confusion on the horizon, I've made peace with the fact that, like Helprin's Baymen, who make sport of outrunning the cloud wall, it is my destiny live right at its edge (in the book, this location is called "Bayonne.")*

No, I'm not moving to Bayonne.

My point is, we had a very nice holiday. But you know I can't write anything that simply.

We haven't had a true white Christmas in a very long time and snow on the ground is not as devastating around here, particularly because you learn very fast to have a four-wheel drive vehicle at your disposal. Which is to say, Dark Garden made it here, broken leg and all.

And, of course, both Heirs made it home and were stuck here happy to bask in the warmth of family and Heir 2's traveling wet bar. (Or, as Eleanor of Aquitaine says in Lion in the Winter: "I am locked up with my sons. What mother does not dream of that?")

Of course, I had to assure Heir 1 that the basket of nuts would be here. He doesn't eat the nuts, but insists they be in this basket every Christmas. One year I forgot to put them out and chaos ensued. In fact, no one eats the nuts except Heir 2, who eats all the hazelnuts. The rest of the nuts may be 15 years old.

Here is Linguiniland, not only wasn't there room at the inn;
the stable was getting pretty crowded also.

So we ate and drank and until 2 a.m. played The Game of Things, which for us is actually The Game of References to Gross Bodily Functions and Male Genitalia, no matter how hard I try to keep it on high ground. Further proof I live in a frat house.

Tomorrow we do it again for New Years Eve. Then it's back to reality.

You'll find me dancing at the edge of the cloud wall.

*Just found out they're turning A Winter's Tale into a movie, but shooting was held up by hurricane Sandy. I so hope they do this justice -- it could be a really beautiful film!

It came without ribbonsIt came without tagsIt came without packages, boxes or bags!

I've watched, with a sort of bemusement, this year's Christmas preparations swirling around me. Time and energy are precious commodities around here, and I save all mine for the cafe.

Inevitably, customers have asked me if I'm ready for Christmas. I just shrug my shoulders and say, "Um...yeah...," implying "I'm as ready as I'll ever be." Foremost on my mind is carrying my business over the slowest time of the year*. Christmas? Bah! Humbug!

Exacerbating this whole situation are my employees, for whom the cafe is only a small segment of their lives.

For instance:

Divine Mrs. D (decked out in tinsel and garland and skipping about to a sappy version of Jingle Bells performed by Aerosmith --- or something like that; something annoying and loud): I finished my Christmas shopping today and I spent last night wrapping them in hand-printed wrapping paper while the children and I gathered around the fire and sang caroles and Papa played the fiddle..."

Me: I got home and spent 3 hours doing the books for the cafe, slurped down a martini, crawled into bed. Then I fell asleep until waking up a 2 a.m. and suddenly remembering the electric bill for the cafe and spending the rest of the night wondering where I'm going to conjure the cash before the lights go out.

DMD has been very focused on getting me into the Christmas spirit and is very lucky I never hauled off and slugged her.

This past week did nothing to bolster my spirits and, ultimately, we realized only one of us was needed to run the whole show -- well, one of us and one of our teenage employees, in this case Ms. Em. So Dirtman sent me home to rest -- physically...and, more importantly, mentally.

I spent one day in bed, watching only what was on the DVR so I wouldn't have to encounter holiday advertising or those sappy Hallmark Channel movies. That, and searched the web for...what?

The thing about surfing the web and sites like Pinterest...if you don't know what you want to see, it has ideas for you. So there I was, being led by my computer to who I am when I'm not only The Owner of a Cafe or The Ex-Non-Profit Employee.

Jeanne Jackson, I'd like you to meet Jeanne Jackson. Remember her? Used to write a funny little blog and make her dogs talk; knitted silly little things while listening to 19th-century literature on audio books; used to laugh so hard she got the hiccups and someone had to get her inhaler.

You know -- before her feet hurt.

So today: Heir 1 is home and Heir 2 is due in tonight. "I'll be out of bed...eventually," I dismally told Heir 1 last night. But I was wrong. Once again, hope comes to the forefront and once again, I rally.

I stink at depression. I just can't seem to manage that elusive nervous breakdown.

I was out of bed when Dirtman got up, making my shopping list and planning normal, family meals. How good it will feel to cook for four people and not 24 for a change. A naked pine tree sits in the livingroom, awaiting purpose.

There are halls to deck, food to prepare, cookies to bake, dogs to dress in embarrassing Christmas attire.

Because today my feet feel just fine.

*Downtown Romney practically no retail shops, save one. So people drive to Cumberland, Md., or Winchester, Va., to do Christmas shopping -- and eat there while they do it.

Open Mic Night...

...The Linguini on the Ceiling perspective:

Uh...Ladies?

Trying to take your picture...

 Excuse me, but could you just...

 

Oh, never mind.

I'll find someone more cooperative who will...

 

...oh, HELL no...

Someone...anyone...normal...

Well, that's just...sad...

Never mind.

Five random thoughts...

...because assembling a cohesive entry any longer than a paragraph is next to impossible when you work 12 hours a day, seven days a week.

1. Neil Armstrong died and it registered barely a blip on the media radar. The first human being on the moon received less attention than a self-absorbed narcissist whose only connection with that celestial body was that funny thing he did with his feet. This annoys me, probably more than it should.

2. My teenage employees cannot read my cursive writing; nor, they admit, anyone else's cursive writing. I have to print everything -- like I'm writing a ransom note.

3. I have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that what passes as "election coverage" has become merely an exercise in dissecting sound bytes. What an incredible waste of brainpower to have to ensure that any three or four words strung together cannot be isolated from the body of a speech and made to indicate the opposite of what the speaker intended. And what a waste of my time to have to listen to it.

4. I'm a bit alarmed at the sudden demonizing of poor people. Oh, there has always been some loud-mouthed bigot at every gathering spouting off about welfare mothers giving birth to get more benefits ("someone" that "someone" told "someone" who told them about), but this type of person was always considered...well...a jerk. There have always been enough intelligent, compassionate people around who knew that even if such a mythic creature like the unemployed slacker raking in the social service benefits existed, they certainly weren't getting wealthy from their efforts. Aside from the fact that applying and receiving government aid is a bureaucratic nightmare, it's humiliating, intrusive, time-consuming and not often worth the effort. Even more alarming is that in a country that is so wealthy, we have set the bar so low for what a human being should have to live without simply because we don't consider their simple existence reason enough to maintain their health and safety. What happened to all those intelligent, compassionate voices?

5. I make Reuben sandwiches in my sleep. I want to dream of other things and it always starts out that way. But, in the end, I'm making Reubens...or, worse, trying to make a Reuben, but never quite finishing it. The degree to which I complete the Reuben is directly connected to my level of stress the previous day. Reubens have become my metaphor for life.

While My Guitar (and I) Gently Weeps

I got my first guitar for my 12th birthday. It was a gift from my grandmother who, as I found out, "played" the instrument and would teach me all she knew. What she "knew" was the "D" chord and a modified "G" chord played with the thumb. With these two chords she could accompany my uncle's violin in an Italian song I don't know the name of, but you would recognize if it were played.

For the first few weeks as a guitarist, I made those two chords work for just about every song I wanted to sing; because, you see, my real talent -- if I have musical talent at all -- is singing. On a level, even then, I knew the guitar would only ever accompany my voice and never perform on its own.

After awhile, I acquired a chord chart and began with the standard folk repertoire -- Where Have All the Flowers Gone, Blowin' in the Wind, 500 Miles...all with vaguely similar chord progressions. It was an important musical breakthrough for me when I discovered minor and diminished chords.

I eventually convinced my mother to let me take real guitar lessons, which I did on and off through high school, never very intensely. I even took a year of classical guitar when I began making my own money. Even these went by the wayside when, upon seeing me struggle to cover with my stubby Hobbit hands some of the fret spreads required to play classical guitar, my teacher said sadly, "You're going to have to accept there are going to be some pieces you'll never be able to play properly."

Well, I never aspired to be a Segovia anyway.

I focused on my voice and, if I do say so myself, I was pretty good in my day. But it was always just a hobby (and justifiably so, truth be told) and eventually one I in which I only indulged to sing my babies to sleep or sooth them on long car rides. I did a brief stint as a children's choir director (where I met Joe's girlfriend Caisee and her mom Carole, who was my accompanist).

One day, though, my guitar (the second one since my grandmother's gift) literally fell apart and it just didn't make financial sense to replace it. Shortly after that I was put on some serious asthma medication that, while improving my ability to breathe, took away a lot of vocal control.

Not quite as big a loss as Julie Andrews losing her voice, but I was a little disappointed. And besides, when The Heirs later took up the guitar and I attempted to play even the simplest chord, I couldn't; two broken wrists, carpal tunnel surgery and arthritis has all taken their toll by this time.

It really didn't bother me until we started Open Mic nights at the cafe. Dark Garden decided that, by next Open Mic Night (July 6), I was going to learn Peace Train by Cat Stevens, I could use Heir 1's acoustic, he decided, and he would provide the percussion. The last time DG heard me sing and play, this had been feasible. I even went so far as to Google the chord progression for the song and steal away to where no one could hear me to make a stab at it.

There was no way my fingers were going to obey me as they used to, let alone one hand paying attention to what the other one was doing. I looked down at them and they appeared to be trying to get along, but my brain just wasn't letting anything resembling music manifest itself from anything my hands were doing; and I hadn't even attempted to add my voice yet.

I told Dark Garden there was no way -- I was used to a classical guitar, I said. Steel-string guitar necks are much narrower1 and I'd have to totally relearn the guitar to make the transition...blah, blah, blah.

Whew! Off the hook!

And then came my birthday.

I recognize it's very difficult to find an appropriate gift for a 55-year-old woman. We, as a group, tend toward martyrdom ("Oh, don't bother. I don't need a thing... ") or extravagance no one can fulfill (I recall ten years ago declaring I was going to spend my 55th birthday in Tuscany. Well...yesterday I watched Under the Tuscan Sun -- does that count?).

But, ya know...most people can come up with a totally non-threatening, benign gift. Heir 1 got me a gift certificate to Wild Bird Unlimited -- I mean, how perfect is that? Happy little birds...mentally handicapped little birds...harmless, right? Dirtman got me a candle I'd admired at our local nifty gift store ...and gin. The Divine Mrs. D2 (our Employee of the Month for the fourth straight month!) got me candles and lotion and cologne from Crabtree and Evelyn (I know. Right?). My sister- and brother-in-law -- their usual just-in-the-nick-of-time money.

See? Nothing scary there, right?

And then Dark Garden presented his gift -- a classical guitar -- the exact one I described.

Ride on the Peace Train (dit, dit, dit DAH)!

So there I found myself, on the evening of my 55th birthday sitting on my bed like I used to back when I was 13, trying to make my hands contort into new chord configurations; only these weren't new -- they were the simplest chords ever.

I reintroduced my hands to each other (though they hadn't been working together to knit all these years. You'd think they'd negotiated a working arrangement by now). My left had accused my right of lacking rhythm and my right hand accused my left of being slow and lazy.

None of us was ready for Cat Stevens.

So I went back to square one: 60s folk songs. I had dropped them from my repertoire in the mid-70s because I'd outgrown them musically (oh! Hubris!) and the lyrics were rather overly didactic for the age of disco and punk rock. Now here I was, unable to strum smoothly (I know, I know. The purists out there are screaming, "YOU DON'T STRUM A CLASSICAL GUITAR!!!" Well, that's what I always had and I couldn't afford two separate guitars -- one for classical pieces and one for modern stuff -- so I did what I had to do.) or switch from one chord to another without trying to see where my fingers were going.

So how did that first session end up?  Well, let's just say that on an advanced birthday, you should never try to do something you know you stink at that you used to do well. I drowned my sorrows in a martini, Chinese dumplings and a viewing of You Can't Take It With You.

Second session: the progressions begin to come back, all but the C chord -- don't ask me why. Fmaj7, Ddim, weird bar chords all begin to come back; but my C chord sounds like I've got cotton stuffed in the sound hole. Frustrated, I drape over the guitar and sulk.

...and my fingers start to move -- on both hands. Just a snippet of a Christopher Parkening piece from my classical days, but they remembered! Of course, as soon as I got involved my hands claimed I'd been dreaming; they couldn't possibly string together a classical phrase, no more than they could manifest a C chord.

Third Session: I'm able to change keys to where I don't need that damn C chord. My voice gets involved.

It stinks.

Fourth session: is later today. I'll let you know...

...after a martini...

1This is actually true. Classical guitar necks are very wide and, like feet in wide shoes, your hands get real comfy having all that room. When you try to make them fit into a narrower area, they get very testy.

2Someday I will devote an entire post to the Divine Mrs. D. For now, suffice to say we lucked up in the employee area.

The Cafe's got talent...

Well...We're good sports, at least...

 I come from a long line of frustrated musicians. Music -- and performing in general -- have always been a huge part of family gatherings for as long as I can remember.

Okay--give me a break about the "mike" thing; I'm very tired and my feet hurt.

Somewhere, probably in John Boy's Basement of Doom, is a reel-to-reel tape of my grandmother on guitar and my uncle on violin performing C' 'na luna mezz'u mare; and one of my earliest recollection is another of The Uncles doing a skit with my cousins that involved Crazy Foam and their Wire Haired Fox Terrier. John Boy's first drum set was my parent's suitcase as a snare drum and a metal trash can over-turned on a mic stand as a cymbal; my cousins were playing something on their guitars -- I don't know what, but I was singing I Should Have Known Better...badly.



Since then, we siblings and cousins have formed and reformed in various musical configurations, some even going professional (meaning some sort of item was given in exchange for the performance -- John Boy grossed $25  one night...) and we've passed this practice on to the next generation. So it was inevitable that, given our own venue, that we provide a showcase for this proclivity for ourselves and others like us.


Hence: The Courthouse Corner Cafe Open Mic Night.

Heir 1 (Charley) on acoustic, Dark Garden on drums, Mike Anderson on bass

Heir 2 (Joe) and Caisee

The Heirs

Trevor and Michael

Ladies and Gentlemen: The Von Trapp Family Singers

The Twinz (Trevor and Lucas) -- I think they're listening to the poem "Crab Boil" by Dark Garden -- hence this expression

...and the crowd went wild...sort of...

...still waiting for the crowd to go wild...

...okay, so me and Annette went wild...sort of...

Annette with some real poetry

I wasn't going to include this photo because it was so busy...until I looked a little closer...Lucas (on drums) has a stalker...

 


I can't say "thank you" enough for the community's support -- to Pastor Roy of Romney First United Methodist Church, who loaned us chairs; to Pastor Jack of Romney First Baptist Church for loaning us a mic stand; to Mike Anderson for helping out throughout this whole process and giving credibility to some of our jam sessions; to Steve and Ruth Martin of Church View Farm for their well wishes and the flowers (those roses smelled incredible!); and to the community members who braved the weather to come out (there were torrential rains and winds, not to mention TORNADOES in the area)!


Our next scheduled Open Mic Night is July 6 and we hope the antics of our inaugural event will convince more people to come in and sign up to perform.

Stupid Animal Tricks

I've lived in a rural area for almost 30 years and have seen and attempted to dodge a variety of road kill. I'm good at anticipating when some bewildered furry creature is going to stumble in front of my tires on a hairpin curve in the rain. I am diligent about braking for unauthorized deer crossing without a sign. But since arriving in West Virginia, never have I seen a collection of vermin so stubbornly determined to fling themselves under my wheels. Prior to moving here, I'd only been the cause of one roadkill: a chipmunk. That's it; 37 years of driving, one chipmunk (I don't count the deer that actually ran into me). Since moving, though, I have personally removed from the gene pool an opossum, two rabbits, and a raccoon (though I think this was more of a suicide).

As you all know, I'm an avid bird watcher. And one of the more common birds at my feeder has always been cardinals; so I'm pretty familiar with their behavior. They are not the brightest of birds, nor have they been the dumbest. I've never had one fly into window glass -- something that can't be said for the sparrow population.

Then I came here.

I'm trying very hard not to make this a "state-identity" thing; let's just say there is a family of cardinals in my neighborhood who are a few feathers short of a boa.

It started this spring, when a young bird's fancy turns to...well, it should be other young birds. But not the Kirby Cardinals (Kardinals? Too cute? Kute?). From what I observed, they were more enchanted with their reflection in our window than with each other.

Now I know absolutely nothing of avian eyesight, but you'd think they'd notice the object of their affection is of the same sex, leading me to the conclusion that Kirby, WV, is possibly the Fire Island of the Cardinal world.

Still, you would think after a couple times whacking into the window, the stupid birds would...stop...and find some other object of desire. But...no...no...they keep attempting to take off from a branch located right next to the window to fly into the window...over and over again. Early mornings sound like hail hitting the window.

So this morning I was getting ready to leave and I hear the familiar pitter-patter of misguided cardinals hitting the window coming from the living room. So I went to investigate and saw this looking back at me through the window.

 

I would like to stress the "looking at me" part; because he was looking at me...and Zsa Zsa...and Landshark, THE CAT.

Most birds would want to fly the other way. But, not this bird...

He just kept staring at me...the dog...and THE CAT...

...and continuing to fly through the window.

I can't tell you how this all ended since I stood there for about ten minutes waiting for it to occur to him that there was no way he was going to fly through the window to THE CAT and finally had to leave for work.

I envision him still perched on the rhododendron branch, swatting the window every now and then to check to see if it is still solid. I picture Landshark on the other side with the exact same goal.