by Ingrid Croce
I love you Ingrid.
Jim
I read the letter with a subtle sense of surprise. Jim’s artistic attempts touched me deeply. He was trying so hard to please me, even to be an artist like me.
Our separation was causing Jim’s insecurities to continually resurface, and another letter quickly followed:
Dear Ingrid,
I don’t do much without thinking about what you’re doin’ and about how nice it will be when we do see each other. Last night I went night fishing down by the shore. It was really breezy. I got there at dusk (I went alone), the beach was deserted and covered with all sorts of junk. It was kinda weird you know empty knowing that nobody was gonna be there swimming or just messing around. The real season is over and only a few people passed by on evenin’ walks. The water was warm, but the spray and the wind made it seem colder.
My mother made a thermos full of hot coffee, which really hit the spot. I only wish I had you there with me. But don’t worry ’cause there’ll be time. You’d never believe how many people tell me how perfect we are for each other. I just smile (or grin) and say, “[Yay].”
Love
Jim
As much as I enjoyed the sentiments in Jim’s love letters, I found just as much pleasure in his humor, as in this adorable letter in which he described his effort to save money:
Dear Ing,
You’ll also be proud that I’m resisting all temptations to spend money. I’m saving all my money for your wedding ring. So far this week I almost bought: a) a big motorcycle; b) a quick draw pistol and a hand tooled Mexican holster and belt; c) a model ‘A’ Ford, completely restored.
Love,
Jim
After four months at art school, although I missed Jim terribly, I was deeply engaged in my studies and enjoying my independence. My father supported my educational expenses, but for extra money I worked as a maid and cook for three college seniors from Brown. I enjoyed cleaning their home and preparing meals for them and felt it was good practice for marriage. For the first time, I felt in control of my life. The academic instruction at Brown and art education at RISD weren’t easy, but I loved the challenge. There were so many great artists at RISD, and the beatnik milieu of the students was exciting.
Although I didn’t partake in RISD’s extracurricular drug scene, my first roommate was expelled for drugs. Fortunately, my new roommate, Margie, and I had a lot more in common and became fast friends. I shared Jim’s tapes and letters with her and couldn’t wait to introduce them to each other.
The following letter, one of his most romantic, arrived a week before Jim’s Christmas visit:
Dear Ing,
You can’t imagine how I’m just dying to hold you (only a few days, thank God) and I’m eagerly awaiting next weekend. Right now it’s raining. It’s one of those cold rains beating against my bedroom window and that just makes me feel worse; cause it’s times like this that I wish all the more that we were together and warm. Someone once said that fires in fireplaces are only to look at and not to sing or make love in front of, but I’d like to tell him a thing or two. The way I feel now I could make love in a fire and still feel cold. But, it won’t always be like this. The nights of hearing cold rains hit the windows and winds rattling panes and snow falling and us together in a nice warm bed are just around the corner. I think of lying still in your arms and listening to your heart beat and hearing your breathing and whispering, “Ingrid,” and you answering, “Yes,” in such a soft tone that I can almost feel velvet and then I say, “Ingrid, I love you, and I love to hold you, and at last we’re alone for real and for good.”
Goodnight Sweet Thing.
I love you,
Jim
_____
That fall, Jim’s parents had grown increasingly impatient with his lack of a career direction. Feeling the pressure, he’d applied at several radio stations hoping for a job as a disc jockey or advertisement writer, both of which he’d done at Villanova’s campus radio station. He was finally hired as a sales representative selling airtime to business owners in the impoverished black neighborhoods of West Philadelphia. The station owners joked that if Jim could survive selling airtime on the streets, he could move up to the glamour of writing radio commercials.
He didn’t see it as a joke but as a real step up. And although he didn’t enjoy sales, and the pay was miserable, it eased the pressures at home. Working at the station gave him an excuse to get out of the house during the day and a way to earn more money for an engagement ring. Getting married had become the most important thing on his mind.
While I was away at school, Jim became even closer to my father. He visited my dad in his office several times a week. They engaged in long conversations about psychology, philosophy, music, and religion. They discussed Freud and Jung, Nietzsche and Buber, and the various religions Jim was exploring. My dad showed him a personal diary he had kept while he was the doctor in charge of a German prisoner of war camp in World War II. My father’s compassion for Nazi POW patients overwhelmed Jim. He had come to admire and love my father deeply.
Although Jim had always been intensely private, hiding his real feelings behind his humor and facades, in my father’s company he opened up about his problems at home.
“I wish I could talk to my father the way I talk to you,” he confided to my dad on one of their visits. “No matter how hard I try to reason with him about making music my career, he doesn’t want to hear it.”
“You need to make your own decisions, Jim,” my dad suggested. “You know, I was raised by a domineering mother, and even now she calls me every day to tell me what I should do. If you continue to try pleasing your parents at the expense of your own dreams, you’ll wind up disappointed and angry.”
Jim pondered my dad’s words for a moment and then spoke in a low, serious voice: “Sid, I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. You know my cousin Steve and my uncle Ralph both have cancer. I’ve been taking turns driving them to and from the hospital for chemotherapy and radiation treatments. Seeing them suffer makes me realize that life is so short.”
My dad clenched his jaw in pain. Several months earlier he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and the doctors had given him less than a year to live. But only Florence knew. He had lost a lot of weight, he felt tired often, and his color was jaundiced. He hoped no one else knew what was wrong.
“Does it scare you, Jim?”
“Well, it makes me wonder. But as a Catholic, I’m not supposed to doubt.”
“What do you doubt?”
Jim bit his lower lip and tried to formulate his answer.
“Well, I still have a lot of questions about spirituality. God seems speculative to me. But I want to believe in something, and I want the freedom to question.”
My dad was still a skeptic, too, in spite of his knowledge of his impending fate. He said, “I encourage you to keep up your search, Jim, and let your conscience be your guide.”
_____
A week before Christmas I awaited Jim’s arrival, eager to show him how much I had matured. My new bohemian art school forms of self-expression were much more colorful than the buttoned-down style of Jim’s conservative friends at Villanova. I had bought an Indian madras bedspread in beige, yellow, blue, and red at a head shop for under $10, and made a sack dress and matching scarf. I also found a pair of black, netted stockings covered with a rose pattern that made me look as though I had tattooed flowers up and down my legs. Sexy, I thought.
Standing in the lobby of the dormitory, I heard the little green VW chugging up the enormous hill that led to RISD. Unable to contain my excitement, I ran out and waved wildly until he spotted me. Jim stopped the car, jumped out, and raced toward me. I bolstered myself, expecting a passionate embrace, but suddenly Jim stopped short and stared at my legs.
“Oh my God, Ing!” he said, pointing at my stockings. “Hurry up and take them off! We need to burn them before they multiply.”
I stepped back, startled a
nd hurt. I knew Jim was only trying to be funny, the way he’d been about my skunk dress at the hootenanny, but his timing was awful, and just like that time, when he saw I was hurt, he realized what an ass he’d been.
“I’m so sorry, Ing. I know you must have looked all over the place to find those stockings. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, honest. It’s just that your legs surprised me.” I started to laugh and figured I was being too sensitive. Jim hugged me and lifted me off the ground in his embrace. When we touched, it was as if we’d never been apart.
_____
Much of Provincetown was closed for the winter. Searching the lonely town, we found a quaint but inexpensive boarding house with only one room available. It was perfect. We signed in as Mr. and Mrs. James Croce and hurried across the street to the only open restaurant. A freezing Atlantic wind blew in off the ocean. Portuguese fishermen sat around the tables at the family-owned waterfront café. After a dinner of delicious hot tuna stew, we walked through the deserted street to our cozy room.
Jim sat on the bed and played his guitar. Inspired by the gusty winds rattling the windows, he sang his favorite sea chantey, “Blow the Candle Out.” I loved the way he sang it. It was one of the first songs he’d ever played for me. As I looked around the little rented room, I realized we had no time restraints and could be together without fear of interruption.
When Jim finished the song, he reached into his suitcase, pulled out a small, dark blue velvet box, and opened it slowly, revealing a full-carat, white-gold diamond ring. He looked at it with pride. Saving money had always been difficult for Jim. He’d rather have spent it on impulsive gifts for his friends and family. The ring represented not just his love but three jobs, endless nights at the Paddock, and a difficult exercise in restraint.
He slid the ring onto my finger and asked me to marry him.
“Yes!” I said enthusiastically, again and again, and hugged him close. We undressed slowly, and as the wind roared outside the window, Jim caressed me and whispered in my ear, “I love you, Ing, and I always will. I want to make love to you like never before, all night long. I’m so happy you’re going to be my wife, Ing. I can’t believe you’re all mine.”
_____
The next morning, we went back to the fisherman’s café and shared half a dozen hot blueberry muffins fresh from the oven. Jim poured me coffee from a large thermos. I wasn’t a coffee drinker—in fact I’d never even tried it before—but to appear grown-up, I drank the thermos dry as we discussed wedding plans and how to break the news to our parents. Naturally hyperactive, I was rendered comically speedy by the caffeine. By the time Jim paid the bill, his animated hummingbird had checked out of the inn, had packed the car, and was sitting and fidgeting in the front seat ready to go.
On our way to Wellsfleet, I reviewed my last four months at RISD, speaking at breakneck speed. When we reached the sand dunes, Jim pulled off the road, parked, and grabbed his guitar. Taking a blanket and picnic basket out of the trunk, we walked hand in hand. In the shelter of a secluded dune, we spread the blanket and huddled together out of the wind; having been on the Cape before, Jim had anticipated this moment. Several weeks before, he’d composed a haunting melody he called “Ingrid.” Now he played the song for me. I was seldom sentimental, but the music made me cry.
When he finished, Jim put down his guitar and embraced me. Our tenderness turned to passion, and on the cold New England sand dune, we fervently made love again.
_____
On Christmas Eve, Jim and I joined my family for a small Chanukah dinner.
“Are you going to tell them now?” I whispered in his ear. He nodded and cleared his throat.
“You know,” he said to my father and Florence, “Ing and I have been talking. It’s been really hard for us being away from each other. So we’ve decided to get married. Show them your ring, Ing,” he said proudly. And I showed my family the ring I had kept hidden until that moment.
“And next semester I’ll apply to school in Philadelphia,” I said.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” my dad said, happy for us and glad we’d be near him and the family.
“Mazel tov!” Florence said, rising from her chair to kiss us both. “I’ll call Rabbi Kaplan first thing in the morning.”
“Mom, I don’t know if we need a rabbi for this ceremony.”
“I think it’s a great idea, Ing,” Jim responded.
“Why do you think a rabbi is such a good idea?”
“I’m going to convert to Judaism,” he said.
I was stunned.
“Jim, that’s great!” Florence exclaimed. “I’m delighted! But have you told your parents?”
“I’ll let them know after I tell them about our wedding plans—one shock at a time.”
_____
On Christmas Day, the Croces invited my family to dinner in Drexel Hill. As usual, the house overflowed with Jim’s relatives. Jim sat next to Aunt Ginger at the long dining room table. Toward the end of the meal, holding my hand, he whispered to Ginger, “We’re getting married.”
“Hey, everybody,” Aunt Ginger announced loudly, interrupting everyone, “Jimmy’s going to marry Ingi!”
For a moment, the room was silent. His father’s face froze. His mother glared. Jim’s aunts and uncles toasted their congratulations and hugged Jim and me.
Jim sighed in relief. He had planned everything perfectly. His parents would express their disapproval and concerns later in private, but for now their opposition had been muted.
“I hope your parents don’t stay mad at us forever,” I whispered, and kissed my fiancé on his cheek.
_____
Though his parents were less than thrilled about Jim’s engagement, his new attitude about work at the radio station pleased them, and slowly they began to change their minds about the marriage. Sensing he was maturing and was getting serious about earning a living, his father surprised him one evening after Jim returned from work.
“Jim, I’d like to talk to you for a minute,” his father said. “You know, before you get married, you need to put a little money away for you and Ingi, a little nest egg.”
“I know, Dad. I’m trying to save,” he said honestly, hoping his father wouldn’t start pressuring him again.
“I can see you’ve been trying. That’s why I’d like to give you a hand. I’ve got an idea, and I think you’re gonna like this one. How would you like to make a record album? I was talking to a client last week who owns a recording studio. He can get us the studio time at a reasonable price. And once you’ve recorded, we can have the album pressed and packaged ourselves.”
Jim stared in shock at his father.
“I’ll front you the money to rent the studio time and get the album packaged. Then it’s your job to sell the records. I penciled it all out, and I figured it will cost about $750 to make five hundred albums. You can sell them for whatever you think you can get, and the profit, after the expenses are taken out, is your wedding gift.”
“Geez, Dad, I don’t know what to say. Thank you. It’s a great idea!”
“Do you think you can sell that many albums, Jim?” his father wondered.
“Absolutely,” Jim responded, ecstatic that not only was he going to cut his first album, he would be able to do it with his parents’ blessing.
His father’s lesson in economics was invaluable. Jim assembled a group of musician friends to back him: his brother, Rich, on guitar and percussion; Bob Knott on harmonica; Karl Fehrenbach on banjo, guitar, dobro, and tambourine; Mike DiBenedetto on guitar, piano, and electric accordion; and Ken Cavender on bass and banjo. And Sal would be the producer.
In the winter of 1966, the young men gathered at the Croces’ house to rehearse the songs that Jim and Sal had selected for the album. Although the musicians had played together on many occasions, they only had one night to arrange and practice their song list before going into the studio to record. “I know professional studio musicians do this all the time,” Jim Senior worried out
loud, “but you guys are just college students. I hope one practice is enough.”
Early the following morning, they met at the recording studio in Wilmington, Delaware. Their enthusiasm couldn’t be squelched even by the chilly reception from the studio engineer, angry at having to work so early in the morning with another novice group. His mood didn’t change until the group performed their first song. They played flawlessly and cut the entire first side with only one or two takes on each song. Impressed, the engineer became wholeheartedly involved in the rest of the session and encouraging.
“He’s got the talent to become a star,” he told Sal. “He can definitely do it!”
Jim named the album Facets. He wanted the songs to represent a variety of styles, and Sal thought it was important to show Jim’s versatility. He hoped they could use this album as a demo to get Jim a real record deal. With more than 2,000 songs in Jim’s working repertoire, they had a difficult time narrowing it down to only 11.
The final cut included three of Jim’s originals: “Sun Come Up,” which he had written with Rich; “Texas Rodeo,” which he had written on his own; and one of my favorites, a Rudyard Kipling poem that Jim had set to music, “Gunga Din.” Also featured were “Coal Tattoo” from the documentary, “Steel Rail Blues” by Gordon Lightfoot, and “Charlie Green,” a song Bob Knott thought was important for the album. For his family, Jim included “Hard-Hearted Hanna” and “Big Fat Woman,” songs he had learned from listening to his dad’s 78s. Also included were “The Blizzard” and “Running Maggie,” which featured Karl’s banjo picking, and “Until It’s Time for Me to Go” by Buffy Sainte-Marie.
Jim wished I hadn’t been away at school so I could sing on the album too. Instead, he asked me to design the cover. But at the last moment, Jim’s father got a “deal” from the album presser on the record jacket. The background album cover was a gaudy coppery-gold with a garish chartreuse sticker that read “Facets by Jim Croce” in black print, hand-pasted almost in the center of the cover. Jim was appalled when he saw it. But in spite of the horrendous cover, Jim sold Facets for $5 each, and most of the albums sold the first week. They were all gone in a month.
