She needed far more time than that to get ready for guests. They called from the edge of town, but she refused to see them. I read once that Ron Howard, the “real” Opie, and some friends were in North Carolina making a movie and decided to drop in on Miss Bavier. Later, I wrote her a letter on our church letterhead, wishing her well, saying I was praying for her, and offering to be of help to her in other ways if she ever needed a minister. I regretted then that I had knocked at her door. She’s up in years now and in poor health, but she has her cats, and a maid to look after her.” I imagine she has regretted a thousand times moving here. That’s the sort of thing she has had to put up with. She hired a neighborhood boy to cut her grass, and when the kids at school started teasing him, calling him Opie, he quit. School buses would unload in the front yard and people would walk around her house, and it was more than she could take. But pretty soon she grew tired of curiosity seekers walking all over her lawn and peeking in her windows. She rode in the high school homecoming parade as a grand marshall or something. She started coming here on vacations, and eventually decided to move here.” They started swapping correspondence and then Mother went out and visited her. When my mother wrote her a fan letter, she wrote back. Well, it sounded to her like an idyllic place to live–the perfect small town where everyone knows you and neighbors look out for one another. “You know how the show would sometimes mention Siler City. “She fell for the Mayberry myth,” she said. I assured her my interest was only personal, that I loved the show, and figured this would be the closest I would ever get to meeting her. You got the impression people had been here before trying this approach. When I said I wanted to learn more about Frances Bavier, she grew silent. I found the woman working in the back of her shop. “She’s the daughter of Miss Bavier’s best friend, the one she came out here for.” I asked, “Is there anyone in town who knows her well, whom I could talk to?” He thought for a minute and named a local woman who ran a craft store. A man came over and said, “I suppose we’ve written a few articles on her, but that was a long time ago. In fact, she was not real sure who Frances Bavier was. The young woman on the front desk did not know of any articles they had written about her. I left my card in the front door and drove to the newspaper office. I walked up to the door and knocked several times without a response. The house would have fit in any middle class neighborhood in the country. So this is where a Hollywood star retires. Stays inside with a houseful of cats.” She described the two story brick-and-rock facade house which I located a dozen blocks away. She smiled and said, “I can tell you where she lives, but you won’t be able to see her. Inside the village of Siler City, I aimed at the tall white spire of the First Baptist Church where I introduced myself to the secretary as pastor of the First Baptist Church of Charlotte. I might not be able to actually meet her, but one never knows about these things, and I surely would not if I did not try. By the late 1980s we were living in Charlotte and I learned that Miss Bavier, perhaps in her 80s by now, had retired to Siler City. I knew then that I would be taking an afternoon and driving to Siler City to find Aunt Bee.įrances Bavier had played the aunt to Andy Taylor and son Opie in the 60s sitcom “The Andy Griffith Show.” Over the years, along with much of America, I loved the program more in reruns than when it was fresh. There it lay in the center of the state, about an hour’s drive from the conference center where I would be spending three days. I got down the North Carolina map and looked up Siler City.
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