w v ¥ hen Margarette called, I knew by the sound of her voice that my hero, her husband, had finally fallen to the diabetes and kidney failure which had plagued him for years. I had made plans last Christmas to attend his funeral, as I sensed his time was near. The flight from Dallas to Lafayette had been canceled but a southern gentlemen welcomed me to fly to Alexandria, and drove 35 miles out of his way to Opelousas, refusing gas money. I asked Detective James Charles of the St. Landry Parish sheriff patrol for directions to a cheap motel within walking distance of Williams Funeral Home, explaining that Clifton Chenier was my friend. With a warm smile, and mouthful of gold rimmed teeth, he said, “I’ll take you to de motel. When you’re ready to go to de wake, jus’ call de police ‘n we’ll send a car to pick you up.” His thick Creole accent was music to my ears. Clifton lay in an open casket with his crown, a Grammy and an accordian nearby, surrounded by flowers and banners proclaiming him “King of Zydeco.” The place had been open since 7:30 a.m. and by 6:00 p.m. I counted over 600 “friends and relatives” signatures in three guest books. By 8:00 p.m. they had to close the doors occasionally to allow the crowd to thin out, as hundreds of people stood in line to say goodbye to the man whose music personified their culture and heritage. In a back room a Detective James Charles said, with a mouthful of gold rimmed teeth, “Fil take you to de motel. W hen you're ready togo to de wake, jus3 call de police cn we3ll send a car topick you up. ” 9 video played all day for those happy to wait their turn for a standing-room-only glimpse of the king in action. Margarette invited me to ride in one of six “family cars” to the church and graveyard the next day, and the photographers stood on their toes as band members, including Clifton’s son “C.J.” , carried out the coffin. The procession of cars behind us stretched as far as I could see, and I could see over a mile at times. Attendance exceeded the capacity of the church and C.J. picked up his father’s accordian, bringing many to tears as he sang “I’m Cornin’ Home.” The preacher spoke of the universal language of music and how Clifton’s life was a testimony to the fact that one can “have faith and have fun too,” and surely “St. Pierre” would say, “Clifton! Would you please play me some of that Zydeco music!” As the procession passed through a small town on the 30-mile drive to the graveyard, people lined the streets. A warm wind whipped up at the gravesite, colorful dresses flapped in the breeze, and tears were blown right off the face of Clifton’s wife. Afterwards we were all invited to “Chenier’s” club to exchange greeting, share memories, and dine on traditional Creole cuisine. jLKLargarette set me up with a ride back to town with Chris Strachwitz of Arhoolie Records, who gave me a brief but colorful history of a sharecropper’s son who cut sugar cane, picked cotton, and worked on oil rigs while developing a sound, a technically masterful proficiency, and a raw power for which he is now well known all over the world. On the ten o’clock news a closeup of Clifton singing “I’m Cornin’ Home” in one of his last performances revealed one tear as it spilled from his left eye and rolled down his face. If I didn’t know, I’d have thought it was filmed in slow motion. Just then Chris knocked on the door. He’d driven forty miles to return the camera I’d left in his car, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. A closeup of Clifton singing “Fm Comin3 Home33 in one o f his last performances revealed one tear as it spilledfrom his left eye and rolled down his face. Fd have thought it wasfilmed in slow motion. K shiny white Cadillac took me to Lafayette airport in the morning where a young lady gave me her pen to write this story. T ou walk into the room and the floor is bouncing up and down, everybody is grinning from ear to ear, and even the bartenders are dancing. He was a man of great strength and considerable self awareness. They buried him like the king he was. C an d ac e Bie n e m an Writer Gregg Stockert lives in Portland. This is his first story in CSQ. Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 43
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