An excerpt from the memoir Eisenhower Babies: Growing Up on Moonshots, Comic Books, and Black-and-White TV.
By Ronnie Blair
In 1966, my favorite Saturday-morning cartoon was Space Ghost, which featured an intergalactic hero who flew like Superman, piloted a spaceship, and fired powerful beams from his wrists.
As Halloween approached, I decided to trick-or-treat as Space Ghost. I encountered a slight roadblock—or perhaps in honor of Space Ghost I should say force field.
At that time, we bought our Halloween costumes at Hazen’s 5 & 10. Eyeing that year’s selections, I discovered that Hazen’s sold a plastic Space Ghost mask but not a full costume, which I confirmed after thoroughly searching the inventory, searching it again, and then searching a third time for good measure. My trick-or-treat plans were disintegrating like a spaceship targeted by a laser in a Space Ghost adventure.
Then my mother came to the rescue. “Let’s get the mask,” she said. “I can make the rest of the costume myself.”
My outlook brightened. This was no idle boast. Mom was a top-notch sewer, quilter, and general whiz when it came to all things crafty. On Saturday morning she sat down with me as the cartoon’s narrator, Gary Owens, intoned in his deep voice, “Spaaaace Ghooost!” and the exciting theme music blared from our TV. I watched enthralled as Space Ghost battled intergalactic villains while Mom studied his costume.
Then she and her sewing machine went to work, the rat-tat-tat of the mechanized needle proclaiming each thread of progress. Soon she handed me the outfit to try on, complete with a cape to tie around my neck. I added my plastic Space Ghost mask, and staring back at me from the mirror stood Space Ghost—or a passable little kid variation.
At school on Halloween, we always marched from classroom to classroom in a costume parade, showing off what we planned to wear on our trick-or-treat rounds that night. As we prepared for the parade, one boy regarded Mom’s Space Ghost handiwork with approval.
“Where did you get that costume?” he asked in awe. Like me, he clearly was a Space Ghost admirer and Saturday-morning-cartoon devotee.
“My mother made it,” I replied.
“Your mother didn’t make that,” he scoffed. “That came from a store.”
But I knew the truth. That evening, as the neighborhood grew dark, Space Ghost set out on his latest adventure—a quest to gather candy and memories on a chilly October 31.
Ronnie Blair is author of the memoir Eisenhower Babies: Growing Up On Moonshots, Comic Books, and Black-and-White TV.
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