Again, I grew up in the best of times—or at least it sure feels that way when I look back through the soft, flickering glow of a Saturday morning television screen.

Saturday hit early at our house. We did not ease into the day so much as tumble into it, sleepy-eyed and barefoot, staged in front of the television like a little audience of experts. There we sat, ready to make the most serious decision of the morning: which cartoon was the favorite? That was never as easy as it sounded.

There were Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck, always clever, always louder than life. There was Wile E. Coyote forever convinced that this time the plan would work, and the Road Runner forever proving otherwise with one cheerful beep-beep. Elmer Fudd was out hunting again, poor fellow, never quite catching what he was after but always keeping us watching and Bugs on his toes.

But my own favorites lived in that wonderful cartoon neighborhood where the Stone Age and the space age somehow felt like family. I loved Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble, those two lovable trouble magnets from Bedrock. I loved George Jetson and his futuristic family, zooming around in a world that looked impossible and yet, to a child, completely believable. And then there was Underdog—the wimpy-looking little mutt in a cape who always seemed to land in the thick of things, proving that heroes did not have to look heroic at first glance. But my favorite, and the one that made me dream the most, was Johnny Quest, the jet-setting young adventurer boy, who was flying into danger and sci-fi mysteries with Race Bannon and Dr. Quest, his friend Radji, and his mutt Bandit.

Those cartoons were more than something to watch. They were the morning spark. They lit the fuse on our imaginations before the real playtime began outside. Once the television clicked off, we carried those characters with us into sandpiles, backyards, tree houses, and patches of woods that became jungles, caves, cities, planets, and secret hideouts before lunch.

We were free-range kids back then, roaming on scraped knees and big ideas. A fallen branch became a sword, a cardboard box became a spaceship, and the backyard suddenly had room for both Bedrock and Orbit City. We did not need much—just sunlight, a little dirt, a few friends, and the leftover magic of Saturday morning still buzzing in our heads.

Maybe that is why those old cartoons still stay with me. They were silly, yes, and sometimes wonderfully ridiculous, but they belonged to a kind of morning that cannot be streamed, scheduled, or downloaded. They were part of a ritual: wake up early, watch the funnies, choose a hero, then run outside and become one. And for a little while, before the day grew up and called us back in, anything was possible. Yabba Dabba Do!!!