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Halloween costumes once required more imagination than money.

At my grandchildren’s elementary school parades, I saw elaborate Darth Vaders, robots, dinosaurs and jeweled princesses. The outfits looked so expensive that I wondered whether some parents needed a second mortgage to afford them.

Halloween in 1950s Southern Indiana was a much simpler affair. Most costumes were assembled from worn-out linens, borrowed clothing and whatever else Mom could find around the house.

A ghost began with a threadbare sheet—or one damaged in the wringer washer. Mom cut out eyeholes, trimmed the bottom into a zigzag and sent the child off to say “Boo” and collect candy.

A hobo costume meant wearing Dad’s old flannel shirt over blue jeans. Mom darkened the child’s cheeks to suggest stubble, while a stick from the backyard and a stuffed handkerchief completed the outfit.

Cowboys and cowgirls had boots, hats and holsters holding cap guns. A neckerchief or black mask could transform the character into a rustler, ready to shout “Stick ’em up” before asking for treats.

Another common costume used Mom’s old formal dress, slip or nightgown, along with hoop earrings, bracelets, rouge and a scarf tied over the hair. A similar scarf worked for pirates, who added an eye patch, an old white shirt cut into points and perhaps a toy sword.

The mummy demanded the most patience. Mom cut the sheet that had escaped ghost duty into strips and wrapped the child from head to toe. The result made bathroom breaks nearly impossible, but it was perfect for staggering from house to house with outstretched arms.

Long before store-bought costumes became the norm, Mom served as wardrobe manager while the children enjoyed the candy. It was a sweet arrangement—and proof that Halloween fun did not need an elaborate budget.