Gabby Hayes

 

You just might want to scratch behind your ear as you fondly recollect the cantankerous bewhiskered old codger who found himself repeatedly cast as a sidekick to some of the greatest cinema sage brush heroes during the growing genre of Western films back in the 1930s and 40s.

George Francis “Gabby” Hayes was an ever-loyal, colorful, eccentric buddy to some of the industry’s most famous cowboy stars, the likes of Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and John Wayne, to name a few.

His talkative grumbling nature and authentic frontier gibberish certainly wasn’t hobbled by his lack of teeth and grizzled salt and pepper beard. No sir. You could always count on Gabby to speak his mind, which he brusquely demonstrated in some one-hundred and forty six westerns in which he appeared.

Imagine the kickback the bull-legged, spirited, bosom buddy—noted for his front brim rolled back cowboy hat—would spittle in response to today’s political milieu.

Why not saddle a horse and head to his final resting place at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Hollywood Hills, California? We could lift the lid on his tombstone and ask the garrulous Gabby himself. A kind of exclusive “underground” interview of sorts.

Arriving at the sprawling grounds, I find Gabby’s grave marker befitting for the ever-endearing modest hero; set on a gentle slopping hillside next to his wife of forty-three years, Olive Hayes.

I rap a couple of times on the engraved slab and wait. Sooner than I had anticipated, the vegetation embracing the headstone releases its grip and a pair of squinting eyes peer out from underneath the timeworn canopy.

“Hey Gabby. Sorry for the intrusion, but there’s more than a few of us who’d like to bend your ear for a bit.”

Gabby mumbles a few words through his extremely thick and unkempt beard and invites me into his earthy habitat.

I slip an LED headlamp over my forehead, locate my pocket recorder and get right to it.

“Mr. Hayes, do you believe in the old adage ‘the end justifies the means?’”

Gabby, his lips pressed into a thin line, responds, “While there may be many a young whippersnapper who’s been led to believe this to be acceptable, I’d be inclined to smack their ears down.” Self-assured, he continues, “I don’t believe in goof ’n around when it comes to right and wrong. Only a morally right act is one that will produce a good outcome. Like my good buddy John Wayne always used to say, ‘Life is tough, but it’s tougher when you’re stupid. If everything isn’t black and white, I say, ‘Why the hell not?’”

“What’s your thoughts on efforts to squelch freedom of speech?”

Gabby, visibly befuddled, “Consarn it! The empty-headed windbags! Once again, as Duke would say, ’They’re short on ears and long on mouth.’ Don’t they realize in the United States freedom of speech is more widely accepted than in any other country in the world? I’ve read up on the history of our country and our nation’s founders were downright courageous, self-reliant men, with confidence in the power of free and fearless reasonin’. Those who would try to quiet our voice are nothin’ but scummy freedom robbers. I’d like to take just one little wallop at ‘em. Everyone of ‘em! And believe me, when I hit ‘em, they stay hit.”

At this point it was obvious I had rousted the pugnacious cockleburs. I hesitated to direct my next question…

“Gabby, what would ya say to givin’ up your trusty Colt Frontier six-shooter to the government?”

The old sidekick, who had been somewhat—but understandably—unanimated upon my entry, cocked his head and came fully alive. “Any sidewindin’ politician that attempts to disarm me, I’d let daylight through their hide and, by crackin’, they’d find themselves pushing up daisies!”

I could see his once pale complexion was now flush with color, his stooped shoulders had snapped to attention.

Anticipating his answer, I queried, “What’s your opinion of a Congress that ignores the Constitution, rule of law and the will of the people?”

As though he had chowed down a bellyful of bad biscuits and beans, he moans, “Never seen such a cockamamie mangy bunch of cockroaches in all my life. Those knot-headed lop-eared broomtails ain’t worth the cuss. Why I could lick the whole darn caboodle of ‘em myself.”

“Are you saying you would boot them all out and replace them with men and women of integrity who commit to uphold their sworn oath of office?”

“Yer durn tootin’! I’d be more than a might worried with the present lot.” Shaking his head, his eyes set off in the distance somewhere, he reflects, “Sounds as if more than the old west has drifted since the years I ers who knew how to ride tall in the saddle.”

He seemed disheartened as he struggled to reconcile the present with his past.

“Just one more question, kind sir. What do you think of the leader of a nation who couldn’t’t even bring himself to utter the word ‘God’ in his National Day of Prayer address?”

The 136-year-old nonconformist, looked squarely into my eyes and pronounced, “He’s a wolf in ox hide, I tell ya. Simple as that.”