I’ve always heard that fans of “The Andy Griffith Show” leave jars of pickles at Aunt Bee’s grave, and now I’ve seen for myself that it’s true.
The actress Frances Bavier, who played Aunt Bee on the show, lived out her final years in Siler City and is buried there. If you look at a North Carolina map, Siler City is almost smack dab in the middle of the state, and Steve and I pass right by the town’s Oakwood Cemetery, on Highway 64, during our drives to and from the NC mountains. Every time we pass by, Steve yells out, “There’s Aunt Bee’s grave!” and I practically get whiplash as we whoosh past.
Two Saturdays ago, I got a closer look. My friend, Brenda, and I actually visited Aunt Bee’s grave, and here’s what we found: The gravestone is tall — maybe eight feet or so — so it stands out from those surrounding it. Other than that, though, it’s quite understated. Besides a floral etching at the very top, the only other “adornment” comes with simple wording: the actress’s real name — FRANCES E. BAVIER [note: the “E” stands for Elizabeth] — followed by her famous character’s name — “AUNT BEE” — and her birth and death dates — December 14, 1902 and December 6, 1989. (There’s also an epitaph, but we’ll get to that in a little bit.)
Before I even saw the name (or rather, names) engraved on the headstone, I knew it was Aunt Bee’s, because of what I saw sitting on the base: A jar of pickles (Mt. Olive Pickles, no less). (By the way, I do realize it would be more accurate to refer to the grave as that of Frances Bavier, but since “Aunt Bee” receives almost equal billing on the stone — and since that’s how I and countless others will always think of her — I hope I’ll be forgiven for using the more familiar reference.)
So…leaving pickles at a grave? Fans of “The Andy Griffith Show” get it: This unusual tribute is a nod to the much-loved episode in which Aunt Bee — known to be a wonderful cook — whips up some surprisingly bad pickles. So bad, in fact, that Barney refers to them as “kerosene cucumbers.”
In addition to the jar of pickles that looked to have been recently placed on the base of the headstone, there were four more jars partially hidden in the unruly grass next to it; these had obviously been there a lot longer, as evidenced by their washed-out labels. Other mementoes left for Aunt Bee included: silk flowers (now faded); a wooden spoon, with a tiny red heart placed in it; a miniature, old-fashioned cloth doll; a small, artificial potted plant; a resin angel; two painted rocks (one saying: “Love One Another”); and some loose change (as well as a penny and a quarter wedged into the detailing at the top of the stone). In front of the grave was a flag, reading “In Memory of a Life beautifully Lived.”
As for her epitaph, it read: “To live in the hearts of those left behind is not to die.” A fitting sentiment for a gravestone. But on this day, it held special meaning for Brenda and me. You see, just as we were getting ready to set out for Siler City that day, we received word that our dear friend, Susanne, had lost her long-fought battle with cancer. And a little earlier in the day, Brenda had learned about the death of yet another friend, Sue. Given the sadness we felt, we considered scrapping our plans for going to Siler City — but later that day when we read those words, it confirmed that our decision to go had been the right one. It had the sense of one of those “meant to be” moments.
And then life did what life will do: It swept us from a moment of reverence into one of ridiculousness.
I knew I’d want to write about this experience for my “When the Kat’s away…” column, which meant I needed to shoot a quick promo video for the Tribune Facebook page. I assured Brenda — who, naturally, was serving as my videographer — that it would only take a minute; after all, I almost always do these videos in one take. And we certainly didn’t want to dally on this particular day, given that the temperature had already spiked into the 90s and Aunt Bee’s grave was baking in full sun.
Now I’m not going to go into details, but let’s just say, I didn’t get it in one take. Or two. Or three. Or eight. It took me an unprecedented nine takes. And I know Southern women like to claim they don’t sweat, but — and here’s the Johnston County coming out in me — y’all, that just ain’t true; we were sweating — a lot.
To review our “footage” after each take, we started retreating to the shade of a nearby treeline for a brief reprieve from the sun. The more takes we did and the more times we traipsed back and forth to the shade, the hotter and stickier we got. And the harder we laughed.
Our laughter didn’t feel like a betrayal to Susanne or to Sue. Instead, it served as a reminder that what we’ll remember most about these women are the times we spent laughing with them.
It also reminded us that there are many ways we can choose to spend our time — but few enhance our lives to the same degree that laughing with friends and family does.
Next week: Spokane!
