Before our narrative begins, it may be helpful to some of you born during or after the 70s, if I summarize who "Festus" was – or more accurately, the actor who portrayed him; Ken Curtis. Curtis was a popular entertainer in the 40s. He began his career as a singer in the Big Band era (as Frank Sinatra's replacement with the Tommy Dorsey orchestra), then went into acting. For a time he was one of John Wayne's cadre of regular supporting players. He was Captain Dickenson in Wayne's version of "The Alamo," and was quite memorable in the Wayne classic "The Searchers," as the guitar strumming savant who vies for the affection of Sara Miles away from Jeffrey Hunter. His greatest ticket to fame was his being cast in the long-running western TV series "Gunsmoke" as Marshall Dillon's wily sidekick and deputy, Festus. He was sort of an old west version of Barney Fife.
"Gunsmoke" had the longest run of any television series up to that time, and Curtis retired when the show finally left the air. He returned to his musical moorings in show business, and formed a trio of folksingers that made limited tours, based in his adopted hometown of Clovis, California.
Which brings us to the crux of our story. The town of Clovis is a bedroom community of Fresno. The California State University of Fresno campus overlaps the two bergs like a giant hinge. Clovis was extremely proud of its bonified TV star resident – THE Ken Curtis. In the early 80s, just after Curtis's death, the Clovis Chamber commissioned a memorial statue of him – it stood right in front of City Hall, like an Old West sentinel. Right from the get-go, there were two main problems with the statue.
First – the artist who created it had leaned toward shlock; the likeness was more cartoonish than reverent, and the statue was painted (holy freekin' crap) to look lifelike, including a peach/beige fleshtone that featured blushing cheeks suspiciously reminiscent of gin blossoms.
Second – the statue was not sculpted from a material suitable for a permanent memorial, like say, granite or marble. It was fiberglass and plaster. Repeat; a statue meant as a long-term landmark – in fiberglass. And plaster. In addition to that little choice judgment, the statue was erected at ground level, rather than upon an elevated pedestal as most statues are, to keep them at least symbolically at bay from potential vandals and pranksters. Big mistake... OH, Big Mistake!!
Now then, the original statue (yes it had to be replaced... but don't jump ahead) was posed with both its hands at Festus's lapels, as if he is happy as hell to welcome you to Clovis City Hall. The gnarly "just consumed an astonishing quantity of beer" grin on the statue's face certainly added a unique enhancement to that intended sentiment.
In short, this was a kitschy mannequin of a grizzled, drunken cowboy with a subliminal hard-on; just the welcomer that I'm sure the local civic leaders reveled in bestowing upon tourists and locals alike. In even more succinct terms, this statue was a piece of fucking shit that embarrassed the whole town.
With that scenario firmly in place, the story now backtracks briefly again, in order to introduce our protagonist; my uncle, the late Johnny L. Rankin.
Uncle Johnny, to be absolutely fair to him, was a fine, upstanding man when he wanted to be. His sense of humor was cosmic in proportions and he was a legendary prankster and walking jokebook. He was one of the earliest influences on my own humor. He also, however, had a certain mean streak that was fueled by a love for drink.
His life had some incredible career highs to counterbalance an ongoing alcoholic low. He served in World War II, and in his younger years both before and after the war, he was a working Country & Western entertainer. He was a Los Angeles area session musician on some of the recordings of Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, among other popular acts of the day. He played with the band of Dave Dudley, who recorded the great trucker classic, "Six Days On The Road." (According to legend, Johnny once got pissed and threw Dave off the stage mid-song – guitar and all – into the audience. Both were shitfaced, of course. Dave wasn't hurt, but Johnny had to buy his destroyed guitar.) He performed solo in nightclubs under the stagename Johnny Lee. (No relation to the later C&W star Johnny Lee.) He also hosted, and performed on, the last live C&W radio show in southern California, broadcasting from a station in Long Beach. After his music career faded, he went into semi-tractor maintenance and was rated as one of the top semi-truck trouble-shooters in the country by Popular Mechanics magazine in the 1960s. So, as I relate this sordid tale of my uncle's mischief, I also want this document to serve as a tribute to him – for the sake of Uncle Johnny's memory, not to mention other family members who may stumble upon this – to keep his bright side reflected as well as his dark. The short description of Uncle John might be: Imagine a countrified, beer-bellied Jack Nicholson. Now back to our story...
At the time of the Festus statue's unveiling, Uncle Johnny was also living and working in the Fresno-Clovis area, as a mechanic. He was also a devoted "Gunsmoke" viewer and so made it a point to be present for the statue's debut. His first look at the Festus memorial apparently stoked a flame of indignation. Driven perhaps by rabid fan vengeance, a good portion of alcohol-lubricated prankster angst and even a touch of civicism (read: "Not in my town, gawdammit,") Uncle Johnny lagged behind after the ceremony and staked out City Hall!
He sat in his truck, chain-smoking cigarettes and probably making intermittent trips to surrounding Quikky-Marts for empowering beverage, until the early morning hours. Sometime before dawn, he got out and removed a "clubbing" instrument from his truck's flatbed toolchest. A ballbat? A crowbar? A sledge? The exact identity of the object is lost to antiquity. He then proceeded to walk over to the Festus statue and slam the fucker off at the knees!!
The statue's unveiling ceremony had been covered on the local evening TV news. The very next day's morning news opened with "Tragedy at Clovis City Hall!" with a shot of two fiberglass blue-jeaned legs standing minus a torso. The statue had stood intact less than 12 hours. The final fate of the thighs-up portion of Festus remains unknown to this day. Uncle John took that secret to the grave with him.
Festus, however, returned in the form of a second statue (see photo at top) almost as ghoulish as the first, only in a new, somewhat more dignified pose. And oh yes, now he is protected (?) by a short metal railing (the one reworking that Uncle Johnny's attack had brought about). The statue has since been moved across the street, to stand guard near the entrance to a bank, but it is still at ground level, though... proving that the Clovis City Commissars still managed to hold onto part of their original vision.
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