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I slipped my sandals off to pass through the security perimeter, and I was sorely tempted not to bother with putting them back on. Shades of an era gone by, when long-haired guys would travel on airplanes barefoot. Guess I would need some bell-bottomed jeans to round out the ensemble. Not likely.

I’m not sure that it’s any more odd than a conservative-looking dad with his two young daughters, and pop was wearing “punk rock edition” t-shirt.

Methinks the world is bit mad these days.

Thursday’s schedule: 7 AM flight to Albuquerque, shuttle to Santa Fe, pick up the car and Ma Wetzel, and drive them both back to big D. In one day. I’m not sure she’s familiar with my wandering, meandering, truck-stop ways, and byways, either.

So into a mad, mad world, I am thrown.

I spent a goodly portion of yesterday evening in the company of my father. Pa Wetzel. Whatever. We have a little side project we’re both working on, and I needed him to get some numbers, previously alluded to in a meeting that afternoon. Following this? He needed to sit at his home computer and do a little work.

I bought dinner – he ate pretty healthy except for the bacon bits on the potato. We get to “Wetzel Manor,” which, according to my Sister, is more like “Wetzel Cabana,” and he sets out to do fulfill his assigned task for the evening, crunching me up some numbers.

I go outside and dig through some boxes of books in the garage. I water one of the plants. I surf on Ma Wetzel’s cute computer. I check on Pa Wetzel.

“I’m just reading today’s mail,” he claims, “then I’ll get those numbers.”

I wander off to leave him to the mail and such. I check back in half an hour.

“I try to read at least one article before I get to work,” he says, thumbing through a tech journal.