I Got a Name: The Jim Croce Story

by Ingrid Croce

  “I’m afraid your mother hates me already. You know, I thought about how upset she was with me because I called you. I don’t think it’s a matter of manners. I think women should call men as freely as men call women.”

  “I agree, Ing, but my parents are first-generation Americans. They believe a woman’s place is in the home. Mom is either cooking or cleaning. She doesn’t drive, and she’s totally dependent on my father. My mother has a way of being short with people. She has a quick, dry sense of humor, but she’s really vulnerable. And that’s why I call her The Flower.”

  “Well, what’s your dad like?”

  “He’s a good man. He just has high expectations of me. He doesn’t want his sons, especially me, to fall short like my uncles.”

  “But he must be proud of your music.”

  “Yeah, my dad loves music for fun. He’s the one who bought me an accordion for Christmas when I was six and put together scrapbooks of every concert and school function I ever played. But he would never consider music being anything more than a hobby.”

  “But music is what you want to do, isn’t it?”

  “There’s nothing I want more . . . but it’s hard enough for my dad to accept the fact that I’m majoring in psychology and German, let alone understand that I never want a 9 to 5 job. He’d like me to get a good civil service position with a guaranteed pension or become a doctor or a lawyer. He’s a product of the Great Depression, and security is all that’s important to him. Can you imagine shuffling papers at the same desk for thirty years? I can’t.”

  He pulled his VW into the driveway. As he opened the door to his house, a din of voices and the rich aromas of roasted garlic and peppers embraced me.

  Jim’s aunt Ginger stood just inside. “Oh! Here’s Jimmy with a date! Hello dear.” She kissed Jim on the cheek. He introduced me.

  “Oh, Ingi, I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  Jim seemed relieved by his aunt’s warmth and open hospitality, and he walked me into the living room, filled with boisterous Italians. The Croce family was large. Jim’s father was the eldest of eight brothers and sisters. Aunt Ginger followed me closely and introduced me to the aunts—Florence, Santina, Evelyn, and Fanny—and their husbands.

  Paul, Jim’s uncle, walked over to me and introduced himself. Patty and Carmen, Jim’s peculiar twin uncles, eyed me up and down from both sides of the room before coming over to introduce themselves. Patty, small, thin, and self-impressed, fashioned himself after his hero, Frank Sinatra. Carmen, in contrast, looked more like Nero: short, round, and devilish.

  The rest of the family then crowded around with smiles and small talk, trying to make me feel at home. They had heard I was a Jewish girl. And in an effort to show acceptance, one of Jim’s aunts made it a point to tell me, “Italians and Jews are so much alike; sometimes you can’t tell them apart.”

  But I was still uneasy; I hadn’t yet passed the acid test. Flora was in the kitchen, ignoring the introductions. I could see her through the open kitchen door. She was a short woman in her late forties and wore a crisp, white, sleeveless shirt, plaid skirt, and hand-embroidered apron.

  Finally, she emerged from the kitchen, carrying a relish tray to the table. Jim intercepted her.

  “Mom, this is Ingrid,” he said, placing his hand gently on my shoulder. Flora glanced in my direction, nodded slightly, and said, “Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” then turned busily away to place the relish tray in its proper place on the table. Uncle Sam, Ginger’s husband, reached for a pepperoncini.

  Flora slapped his hand. “Schifoso!” she scolded.

  Sam was Sicilian, dark, and somewhat sinister-looking, with tattoos of nude women, hearts, and anchors on both arms.

  “Watch out for Uncle Sam,” Jim leaned toward me and whispered. “He’s got a gun.”

  I forgot about Flora and stared at Sam, who was waiting for her to leave the dining room so he could help himself to the antipasto. I looked searchingly at Jim to see if he was joking, but couldn’t tell.

  He guided me over to meet his grandfather, Pa. The old man sat off by himself, embedded in a floral-print easy chair. He awoke when Jim gently shook his arm.

  With a dreamy smile, Pa patted my hand.

  “Oh, the girl” was all he said.

  Finally Jim led me to meet a tall, handsome, dignified man standing in the living room doorway by himself. Jim tensed visibly as we approached the neatly dressed, silver-haired gentleman.

  “Ingrid, this is my father.”

  I sensed Jim’s intimidation but felt comfortable with his dad as he took my hand in both of his and smiled warmly.

  “Welcome,” he said, “I’m glad you could come. Jim has said so many nice things about you and your family.”

  Jim appeared to relax, and I felt a rush of satisfaction. Somehow I had at least momentarily bridged the gap between father and son.

  Dinner was served around a long, rectangular table with a full-length clear plastic cover protecting an intricate lace tablecloth.

  Everyone knew their seats, and I felt at a loss until Jim’s father took my arm and pulled out the chair next to Jim’s seat. Jim, smiling broadly, sat on my left.

  After Flora served the feast of garlic bread, lasagna, kohlrabi, peas, roasted lamb, and Italian Chianti, Jim got up to tune his guitar. While the women cleared the dishes and began to prepare for dessert, the cousins, the Croce men, and I retired to the living room.

  As Jim sang, I studied the room. So this is Jim’s house, I thought. It was immaculate—not a speck of dust anywhere. The wallpaper was white with a brocade of gold vinyl, and crucifixes surrounded confirmation pictures of Jim and Rich. The couch and two side chairs were upholstered in dusty-rose brocade, covered with more clear plastic. A china cabinet held small teapots and porcelain statues from Italy.

  I watched Flora move intently around the dining room and the kitchen, cleaning up with a sure, single-minded purpose. She seldom spoke to the other women, except to direct chores with her dry sense of humor. In the living room, Jim continued singing.

  From the corner, Pa raised his voice and belted out a single line from an Italian opera. Nobody paid attention to him.

  Aunt Ginger leaned out from the kitchen and asked Jim for “Charlie Green,” a Bessie Smith song about a man who played the slide trombone. Jim obliged, then motioned for me to join him.

  We sang three songs, and everyone clapped politely. Flora ignored us, never pausing from her cleaning. “Come on in and sing with me, Mom,” Jim called to his mother. “Let Ingrid hear your beautiful operatic voice.” Flora laughed off the compliment and continued to clean.

  “Come on, Flower,” Jim teased, begging her, “sing for us.”

  “Oh, Jimmy, please,” Flora argued. “You know I can’t sing anymore. Now don’t bother me.” She motioned with her hands for him to leave her alone. But Jim refused to take no for an answer. He walked right up to her, tilting his guitar up high in the air near her ear. “Come on, Flower!” He began strumming a familiar tune. “Show Ingrid what a wonderful voice you have. Sing like you sang when you were a girl back in Rochester.”

  Flora surprised me.

  Jim began to play a popular Italian song. All of a sudden, his mother released a soaring soprano voice and sang the song all the way through in Italian.

  The family clapped loudly.

  “Not too bad for an old woman,” Flora laughed nervously, then went directly back to her cleaning.

  She’s endearing, I thought. She really isn’t as tough as she looks.

  After several more songs, Jim and I got up to say good-bye. We were off to perform at a student event at Villanova, and afterwards Jim had to do his weekly radio show.

  _____

  Sal had organized a student hootenanny in the university cafeteria below the radio station, and had made himself master of ceremonies. When Jim and I arrived, Sal saw us and waved. He wore a long, black silk cape with fuchsia lining, black boots, and pegged pants, and he carried an antique cane
with a red tip. Approaching us, he made a low, sweeping bow.

  “Sal,” I teased, “you’re a little early for Halloween.”

  “Not Halloween,” he intoned. “Tonight, I am dressed for a blind date.”

  Jim explained that once Sal went on a “blind date” and tapped around with his cane all evening, pretending he couldn’t see. Jim laughed and continued: “At one point, he had his date lead him to a piano in a bar where he played for her, mimicking Little Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles. And the asshole never told the poor girl he really wasn’t blind—just a finnochio!”

  The hootenanny began when Sal went up onto the stage and, with a swirl of his cape, grabbed the microphone and introduced Jim, Bill Reid, and the banjo player, Carl Fehrenbach.

  The trio opened the show with a couple of Kingston Trio tunes, “Greenback Dollar” and “Tom Dooley.” Jim soloed on “Scotch & Soda,” and after they finished, he came down from the stage and introduced me to his good friend Bill, a six-foot-two-inch burly Irishman in his late twenties with a big voice and a pronounced swagger. Bill was standing next to an attractive dark-haired woman who introduced herself to me as his wife, Dee. She told me to ignore how rude Bill was for not introducing her. Bill acknowledged her comment by slapping her on the butt and telling me, “I was just saving the best for last!” Dee gave him a look that let me know she was the one who was really running the show. But she let Billy go on that one and started a conversation to get to know me better.

  Dee told me that Jim met Bill one summer when Jim took a job painting hallways at the Delaware County Memorial Hospital.

  Bill was the foreman on a construction site adjacent to the hospital. During his lunch break one day, Jim went over to watch the construction workers operate the heavy equipment. He was immediately fascinated with Bill, who was reckless, loud, profane, and funny. Though he had no experience in it, Jim told Bill that he wanted to learn to operate the diesel Caterpillars. In good humor, Bill told the kid he was much too skinny to drive the big Cats. Jim was not discouraged. He was persistent and struck up a conversation, bantering with Bill, who simply ignored his requests until Jim revealed that he played the guitar and wanted to be a singer.

  Bill loved music and was an accomplished guitarist and banjo player himself, though his predominant talents were brawling and partying.

  He told Jim to bring his guitar to the job site, and the following day they played during their break. Bill was impressed and conceded to someday teach Jim to drive the big ten-wheel dump trucks, if Jim would agree to play music with him.

  Jim and Bill began to play regularly during their breaks and lunch hours. Bill taught Jim to play bluegrass and some songs he knew by Johnny Cash.

  Jim thoroughly enjoyed the robust and unbridled vulgarity that made Bill Reid seem bigger than life. With Billy you just couldn’t be sure what was going to happen next—an intriguing quality Jim loved. Jim was a great listener and liked to draw out the exaggerated essence of Bill’s personality. Bill liked Jim’s attention and felt bigger and rowdier and more important when Jim was around.

  Shortly after they met, Bill invited Jim to dinner at his house, where Jim met Dee and their young son, Gregory. As their friendship grew, they played music together almost every night. Bill’s volatile marriage to the beautiful, strong-willed Dee, pregnant with their second child, centered on Bill. Dee also took a liking to Jim and often invited him to join them for dinner. Jim thought Dee and Bill were perfect together, earthy and real.

  Bill loved to taunt Jim, and the night Jim introduced me to Bill at the hootenanny, Bill immediately began to tell me a story in his booming voice:

  “One day Jim comes by to help me put on my new roof. We spent the afternoon up there, drinking wine and hammering tiles. I’ve got the jug and a hammer, and Jim has a stack of tiles in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. I turn my back to him for a minute when all of a sudden I hear this noise. Whoosh! And I look to where Jim was standing, or where he should have been standing, and I only see him from the waist up! He’s falling off the roof! His eyes and his mouth are open wide, but he’s still holding on to his wine. Then he disappears. I don’t know whether to laugh or not, and I run like hell over to the edge. When I get there, I see this hand holding on to the gutter pipe. Then I see the other hand reaching up and groping around at the edge of the roof. But it’s still got the wine glass in it and can’t hold on. Jim’s swinging back and forth, but pretty soon he slips off and does the neatest back flip I ever saw, still holding the wine glass. I swear he never spilled a drop.”

  At the conclusion of this hyperbolic tale, Bill winked at me, grabbed his banjo, slapped his wife on the bottom again, and yelled, “It’s my turn to play!” He swaggered up to the microphone and belted out a version of one of his favorite country songs: “You Oughta See Pickles Now:”

  When I was just a little boy,

  There lived next door to me,

  A little girl named Pickles,

  Just as mean as could be

  Now she ate pickles all day long, she didn’t care what kind

  Got so mad when I asked her if she grew on a pickle vine.

  But gee, oh golly, ya oughta see Pickles now

  When she walks by, I sit and sigh, all I can say is “Wow,”

  But here of late I’ve got an awful urge to hang around

  Gee, oh golly, you oughta see Pickles now

  The audience laughed and clapped along in rhythm. The hootenanny continued with a performance by Villanova University’s all-male a capella choir, the Spires. Jim was part of this group as well, and by now I was eager to sing, as I knew that when they were done, it would be time for Jim and me to play our songs.

  I was excited to sing with Jim in front of a large audience, and it went well. The applause gave way to demands for an encore, and we sang Ian and Sylvia’s “Four Strong Winds.”

  Sal performed the closing number, an old protest song called “Just a Little Rain.” He strummed his guitar meditatively and began to sing, “Just a little rain, just a little rain,” and then he sang it again: “Just a little rain, just a little rain . . .”

  Over and over it went. The repetition puzzled the audience, who seemed unsure if Sal had forgotten the words or was just teasing them.

  Sweat rivulets ran down his cheeks. He kept singing the words with great emotion, but with every line, his face contorted more. His body bent forward, lower and lower, until he was almost squatting on the floor.

  “Jesus,” said Bill loudly. “He looks like he’s going to take a shit.”

  Jim laughed and doubled over. As Sal struggled on, Jim howled, convinced that he was really putting them all on.

  Finally, Sal seemed to remember another line. It was from a different song, but he sang it anyway. To conclude, Sal crossed the stage to where Jim had sunk to the floor, helpless with glee. Sal pointed accusingly at him with his white cane, then burst into shrieks of hysteria himself as the audience broke into laughter and cat calls.

  The show was over, and Jim took me upstairs to the radio station to watch him do his weekly show. I took a seat among the boxes of albums and looked around at the posters of Bob Dylan, Muddy Waters, Phil Ochs, Mississippi John Hurt, and others.

  Jim’s agility with the equipment impressed me greatly. I leaned my elbows on a wooden desk and put my chin in my hands and stayed that way for almost three hours, watching him and listening to his warm, smooth, sensual voice.

  When he brought me home, an hour late, my father again waited upstairs. At the front door, Jim and I embraced in a long, passionate kiss.

  Jim left reluctantly.

  I watched his Volkswagen drive back down the street until it was out of sight, and then listened as the familiar whine faded into the darkness.

  BALLS TO YOUR PARTNER

  THROUGHOUT THE WINTER of 1963, my life and music were interwoven with Jim’s. Almost every day on his way home from Villanova, he stopped at my house after I got home from high school. He’d help me with my
homework, or we’d practice new songs or just hang out. Although our physical relationship had gone no further than heavy petting, to me, a virgin, making music with Jim seemed as intense and passionate as I imagined making love would be.

  One afternoon when Jim came over and we were on our way to my room, we passed my dad, at work alone in his office. I went over and gave him a big hug and told him we were going to my room to practice.

  Jim said hello, and my dad welcomed him warmly.

  “Would you like to use the Wollensak?”

  “I already borrowed it, Dad. See you later.”

  “You and your dad have a great relationship,” Jim said, as we entered the den, which doubled as the bedroom I shared with my sister Phyllis. It also served as a study and art studio. Phyllis and I had an agreement that we’d never interrupt when either of us had company. “He must really trust you to let us practice in your bedroom.”

  “He’s my best friend,” I said enthusiastically as I sat down cross-legged and pulled Jim down to sit beside me. “I love him so much. I can tell him anything, and he doesn’t judge me.”

  “You tell him everything?” He asked impishly, “even about us?”

  “Absolutely,” I smiled. “He thinks you’re terrific! And so do I.” I put my arms around him and hugged him.

  “If he knows everything, why does he let us practice in your bedroom?” Jim pulled away.

  “Jim, we haven’t done anything wrong. Not yet anyway!” I laughed. “What we do is natural. Please don’t pull away. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. He knows I love you.”

  He didn’t say it back. Instead, he unfastened his six-string guitar case and started tuning.

  “I can’t be open like that with my parents,” he said finally. “They’re not interested in my feelings, and certainly not my sexual ones. In the Catholic Church, sex before marriage is immoral. Even making out is a sin.”