Spring had sprung and Martin the Martian packed his bags and gassed-up the flying saucer. He packed his binoculars—bird-watching was best done in the spring, and he had yet to spot a Magee Marsh Cerulean warbler. His swimming trunks went into his travel pack next. There was nothing quite like an early Spring cold-plunge in Lake Superior. Martin set his course, then flew a tight circle around Mars to test the old clunker’s rotational-wazoo. Still listing to the left, but good enough to make it to Earth, although he’d fly her manually, else he’d end up in the boondocks on the left side of the galaxy. Before heading home, he’d swing by the in-laws’ in Georgia with high hopes the peaches were ready. Dickey Farms for their famous soft-serve peach ice cream was always on his “to-do” list.
It was December and in all of his 116 years of life on the frigid fourth rock from the sun, Martin had never been so cold. His short visit to Earth had turned into an eight-month frozen tundra nightmare. Before his saucer had even broken through Earth’s atmosphere, the old clunker shot off to the left and he found himself stranded in some godforsaken town in the Nunavut region of Canada, where it was always winter. As his mother always said, when life gives you bitter Hellas Planitia Fruit, make Hellas Planitia Beer, so he got a job at Santa’s Workshop, where he’d spent 237 days making realistic toy flying saucers… and falling in love. His salary? A ride home—with new wife Elfvira in tow—on Santa’s sleigh, once Santa slept off his after-party spiked eggnog hangover. Martin was nervous about bringing home another Earthling wife. He hoped Mother liked this one. At least this one wasn’t an American.
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