Uncle Fred The Space Cowboy

When I was a kid—maybe nine or ten—my Uncle Fred was the coolest guy I knew. He’d come over for Sunday dinners, always in a hurry, tossing out wild stories about his “commute” and “work on Mars.” He’d say stuff like, “Traffic was murder today—damn asteroids,” or “The red dust gets everywhere up there.” I took it literally. In my head, Uncle Fred was a space cowboy, blasting off in a shiny spaceship every morning, zipping past stars to punch the clock on Mars. I even drew him in crayons—big helmet, silver suit, waving from a crater.