Every Halloween for the last decade or so, I’ve been tasked with explaining my contradictory feelings on the holiday to those around me. Is Halloween one of my favorite holidays? Yes — the entire autumn season is my favorite time of year. At the same time, the Halloween season is often the time of year where I feel the most lost. In the weeks leading up to Halloween and on the holiday itself, I typically try to avoid Halloween-themed media. This isn’t because I’m not a fan; I love the nostalgia something like It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown brings, and I think horror is one of the most interesting genres in all of film. Despite generally loving Halloween, it is also a reminder of my dad, whose birthday fell on the same day and who passed away in September of 2008. Every year since, Halloween has carried a weight to it that I haven’t known what to do with, instead of the joy that I want to feel. Last year, however, I finally took the advice of some friends and watched Over the Garden Wall. For the first time in a long time, watching a Halloween-themed piece of media was not only enjoyable, it was therapeutic.
Over the Garden Wall, Cartoon Network’s 2014 miniseries from Patrick McHale, has quickly become a Halloween and autumn viewing essential. Everything from its gorgeous visuals and folksy, addicting original soundtrack to the eerie, eldritch story voiced by a cast including Elijah Wood and Tim Curry quickly made the show a critic and fan favorite. Over the Garden Wall is strange, and it was that charming strangeness that drew me in. What kept me there, however, was the way the show depicted death, familial responsibilities, and finding comfort in the unknown — literally.
At some early point within Over the Garden Wall, I got the feeling that this was a world I knew, both physically and emotionally. The landscapes and visual designs of this world dubbed “The Unknown” were so reminiscent of the New England autumns I grew up with: searing reds and oranges, houses that have been standing for centuries, and areas with trees so dense you can lose yourself. I saw aspects of myself in Wirt, the melodramatic, easily overwhelmed older sibling to Greg, the younger child who is prone to outbursts in song and whose personal and creative expression is undeterred by those around him — a mirror of my own younger brother. On a deeper level, I could empathize with Wirt’s struggle with his responsibility for his young sibling. Every time an adult reminded Wirt, ‘You’re the elder child — your brother is your responsibility and any slip-up is therefore your responsibility as well,’ I cringed in recognition. I’ve lost track of the times I’ve had that same conversation, with both adults and myself. One of the most compelling and comforting aspects of the sibling dynamic in Over the Garden Wall, however, is not only in how Wirt embraces his responsibility for his brother, but how over the course of the series the siblings become a team. In the face of death and fear of the Unknown, they encourage one another, laugh and sing together, and protect and sacrifice for the other. While Wirt still assumes responsibility for his younger sibling, they’re on this journey together.
As I watched the shifting dynamic between Wirt and Greg on screen, it reminded me of my own relationship with my brother. I’ve heard horror stories of siblings torn apart by the death of a parent, of older siblings who couldn’t handle the parental responsibility that was thereafter thrust upon them. The fear that that would happen to me and my own brother, that we would lose one another somewhere along the way, haunted me. But as I watched Wirt not only care for his younger brother, but develop a supportive, loving, and healthy relationship with him as well, I allowed myself to recognize the love and support my brother and I have given one another over the last twelve years. I took great solace in knowing that, while I will always feel responsible for my younger sibling (eldest daughter syndrome got me good), we have spent the last decade travelling through the winding woods of our own Unknown, and we’ve done it together.
One of the most intriguing installments of Over the Garden Wall is the second episode, “Hard Times at the Huskin’ Bee.” As Wirt and Greg attempt to find their way out of the Unknown with the help of a talking bluebird named Beatrice, they come across what appears to be a quaint village of people adorning pumpkins on their heads in preparation for the upcoming harvest. After Wirt and Greg mangle some crops and interrupt the harvest celebration, the people of Pottsfield begin to question the children on why they’re there; they’re “too early.” Because they’ve destroyed the property and disturbed the peace, the town punishes them with a few hours of manual labor, and Wirt sighs in relief; this won’t be too bad. The kids spend their time harvesting more pumpkins and shucking corn, until they reach their final task: digging two holes in the ground. When Beatrice snarks that they’re probably digging their own graves, Wirt tries his best to ignore her, a method that works until Greg announces jovially that he’s discovered a skeleton in the hole he has dug. As Wirt panics and tries to find a way for them to escape before the townspeople approach, two skeletons climb out of the ground, don pumpkins and corn, and are greeted joyfully by the other townspeople who, Wirt realizes, are all skeletons. Wirt and Greg take their leave, and Enoch, the leader of the town, reassuringly tells them that they’ll join them someday when they’re ready.
Out of the ten excellent episodes of Over the Garden Wall, “Hard Times at the Huskin’ Bee” was one of the ones that stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t because I thought it too dark for a children’s program (there are plenty of episodes darker as the series progresses), but because it’s rare to find media that celebrates the event of death in such a light and positive way. Death is one of the few things that will happen to every living being, and it is still one of the most devastating, taboo topics of conversation, especially in Western society. Pottsfield (potentially a reference to potter’s fields filled with unmarked graves) is perhaps the most joyful and compassionate place that Greg and Wirt come across in the Unknown, and, ironically, it’s filled with dead people. But that’s exactly the point: Wirt and Greg (mainly Wirt) may be fearful of the people of Pottsfield, but they have no reason to be. They weren’t digging their own graves; they were setting the dead free, allowing them to join the celebration as members of the town who are loved by their community. I couldn’t help but be reminded of my dad, who loved cemeteries and graveyards. When I was a child, we would often park under the giant white oak tree in one of our town’s graveyards and just sit peacefully. My brother and I were permitted to play, as long as we did so carefully. Over the Garden Wall echoed those lessons he taught me: graveyards should be respected and cared for, not feared. Be mindful of the land and those buried there and keep the peace, and you have nothing to be afraid of — we’ll all be there one day too, and there is a certain air of reassurance to that fact.
By the time I reached the end of Over the Garden Wall, I realized that not only had I made it through a piece of Halloween-related media without feeling the typical weight of grief that I usually do, but that it had helped me celebrate the life I had with my dad and the life I’ve lived since he passed. The death positivity and realistic yet heartwarming depictions of sibling dynamics and responsibilities that play out through the miniseries allowed me to engage in a form of catharsis that I needed. It gave me the reassurance that it’s okay to still love Halloween, even if it reminds me of someone I’ve lost. In fact, it should give me all the more reason to celebrate his life while honoring not only his death, but the feelings that the aftermath has left me with. To take comfort in things we fear such as death or the unknown can be liberating.
Halloween is only a couple weeks away — and I can’t wait.
