by Ingrid Croce
By the end of January, Maury learned that his album wasn’t selling. His thin, ethereal voice and ultra-romantic subject matter had eluded a commercial audience, so he and Jim set out to find work at local hangouts. Maury’s music was too delicate for the tough atmosphere of country bars, so Jim became the focus of their performance onstage, and Maury began to back up Jim wherever they played. As Jim’s lyrics and presence became dominant, Maury found comfort on the edge of the spotlight. There he was free to play his guitar without distraction. Together they presented a masculine image that was both strong and subtle.
In February, I went to a fertility specialist to find out why after five years of marriage I had never conceived. As the doctor examined me, he discovered I was about two months pregnant. Thrilled, I thought back to Christmas Eve and Jim’s tiny bed under the crucifix. I left the doctor’s office excited to tell Jim the good news.
When I told him, he feigned excitement but stared off into the distance, his eyes glazed with terror as the weight of the responsibility of fatherhood descended upon him.
That night, when George Spillane went to bed, he saw the light on in the Croces’ kitchen and heard Jim singing the lyrics to his haunting melody:
If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I’d like to do
Is to save every day ‘til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you.
If I could make days last forever,
If words could make wishes come true,
I’d save every day like a treasure and then, again,
I would spend them with you
But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do once you find them.
I’ve looked around enough to know that,
You’re the one I want to go through time with.
If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true,
The box would be empty except for the mem’ry
Of how they were answered by you.
But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do once you find them.
I’ve looked around enough to know that,
You’re the one I want to go through time with.
TOMORROW’S GONNA BE A BRIGHTER DAY
ONE DAY IN EARLY MARCH 1971, Tommy received a package from Jim. He probably hadn’t expected to hear from him, not after the hostile meeting over the contract dispute at Kurnit’s office several months earlier. Inside the package was a cassette and this short note:
Tommy,
I just wrote these songs and I’d really appreciate just anything you could do with them. Get them recorded by somebody else. Things are kinda tough.
Jim
Tommy listened to the tape and called Jim.
“Jimmy, these are your best tunes yet! You must have been working on them for months.”
“Thanks,” Jim said. He was pleased Tommy responded so quickly. In reality, he had written all the songs in only one week. With a child on the way, it was now or never if music was ever going to be his career. The songs on the tape included “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim,” “Time in a Bottle,” and “Operator.”
“Listen, Jimmy,” Tommy said, “I’d like you to make a demo of the new material and send it out to all the big labels. I really think we can get some interest in these songs.”
_____
While awaiting further news from Tommy, Jim continued working at Sweeney’s Construction Company, leaving home at 4 AM and not returning before 2 or 3 in the afternoon. He spent the rest of the day focusing on our soon-to-be-born baby. Although he didn’t let on, the physical aspects of childbirth frightened him. He checked out scores of books from the library on natural childbirth and child care, and within weeks he considered himself an expert on the subject.
Hovering over me like a Jewish mother, he made me adhere to a special diet that included vitamins, health foods, lots of milk, and dark bock beer, something he had read was good for mother’s milk. Returning from work, he would say, “It’s time for our medicine.” He’d pull his church key out of his pocket and pop open the beers. I choked on the dark, thick brew.
“Are you sure this is necessary for the baby’s milk?”
“It’s the best thing I know.” Enjoying another swig of beer, he added, “Don’t worry, Ing. I’ll do it with you.”
_____
One snowy afternoon, Jim arrived home from a half-day’s work and suggested we take a walk to Carole and Roger’s house. They were some new friends he’d met at the food co-op he wanted me to meet. And he was insistent that I get some exercise.
“But it’s snowing outside. How about we wait until the snow stops?” I told him.
“Walking in the snow will be fun,” he said. “And besides, I really want you to meet Carole.” Jim had befriended Roger at a local Lyndell bar a few months earlier. I knew of Roger’s reputation for maintaining a healthy supply of excellent weed, and I suspected the real motive for the visit was to replenish Jim’s stash. “Remember, I’ve told you about Carole: she’s eight months pregnant with their second child. She can tell you firsthand about natural childbirth. Come on, Ing, you’ll like them,” he said persuasively. “They’re cosmic. Roger used to be the Marlboro man on those gigantic billboards. Then he worked in the family business sewing sequins on costumes for country and western stars. He’s a real character. Wait ‘till you see him, Ing—he looks just like Rumpelstiltskin now, with a long skuzzy beard down to his belly button.”
“Oh, that sounds so inviting.”
“He’s got a degree in business, and I think Carol has her master’s in math or accounting, but they’re hippies. And they rent this gigantic, dilapidated mansion. It’s Gothic. It looks like the place where the Munsters hung out. They’re great!”
When we arrived at the ominous mansion, Carole and Geena, their five-year-old daughter, were deep in snow, gathering wood.
“Carole, this is Ingrid,” Jim said, rubbing his hands together in the cold. A small woman wearing brown hiking boots and purple tights, and wrapped in a heavy army parka that barely covered her big stomach, welcomed me with a warm smile. She loaded a large pile of wood into a wheelbarrow.
“Jim, help her,” I insisted, concerned to see a very pregnant woman lifting such a big load.
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Carole said, waving him off. “I’m used to this. Just go inside and get warm. I’ll be right up. Geena, you go with them and show them where your dad is.” Turning back to us she continued, “During the winter, the whole house is closed off except for the two central rooms. That sure makes it easier to heat, but you can get lost in this place if you’re not careful. I’ll be up in a minute to make some hot tea.”
Jim and I followed Geena up the stairs and through a long, dark hallway.
“Hey, Rog,” he called out as we entered a small, shadowy room, “it’s Jim and Ingrid.”
“Croce, far out!” came a voice from an antique velvet couch. Roger lay flat on his back in bib overalls. His long beard and shoulder-length dishwater blond hair looked as if it covered one end of the couch. He clutched a pink fluorescent yo-yo to his chest. In front of the sofa was a coffee table strewn with weed, hash, and smoking paraphernalia. “What’ll it be?” he asked, giving me a nice-to-meet-you nod. “Daytime or nighttime hash?” He leaned up on an elbow, ready to weigh our choice on the brass scale. “Actually, the nighttime batch is a little potent; I suggest the daytime stuff if you are going to try to get home before dark.” He looked to me for my preference.
“Oh, no thanks,” I said. I began fidgeting with my jacket zipper.
“I’ll take her share,” Jim joked.
Carole carried the wood up the two flights, entered the dark room, and rekindled the fire.
“Would you like some hot tea and biscuits?” she asked, standing by the fireplace, which doubled as their makeshift kitchen.
“Sure, let me
help,” I said, grateful for something to distract me from the weed.
“Man,” Roger drawled, “I had a mystical experience this morning while Geena and I were on our walk in the woods.” He lit a pipe filled with the strong stuff. “A tree gave me the name for my new kid.”
“Oh yeah?” Jim replied, interested. “What did the tree say?”
“Far out, man. The tree said to call my new daughter Licorice Theresa.”
“Nice name!” Jim said. After a couple tokes on a pipe, Jim asked if he could play Roger’s guitar, which was propped against the end of the couch.
While Jim strummed and sang a ballad in Scottish brogue, Roger lay in a horizontal position, dropping his yo-yo. The string was only about a foot long, and the yo-yo never hit the floor before it returned perfectly to his hand. I turned from the fireplace and burst out laughing when I noticed the abbreviated string.
“It’s a custom-made couch yo-yo,’” Roger explained.
“You ought to package them with this nighttime hash,” Jim said as he passed the guitar to Roger. “Why don’t you play something?”
Roger sat up and began strumming a new tune he had dreamed up called “Tweeter Babe.” The entire song consisted of the same line repeated over and over:
I take care of my tweeter babe,
And she takes care of me.
I take care of my tweeter babe,
And she takes care of me . . .
“That’s great, Roger,” Jim giggled. “Do you have any others?”
He responded seriously: “Yeah, man, I’ve got loads of them. Here, let me play you some.” We sat in the living room, laughing hysterically at Roger’s simple, quirky songs.
“It’s Roger the Amazing,” Jim said, bestowing the new name on his friend. And for the rest of the afternoon Roger put on a magical performance.
_____
By spring of 1971, Jim had decided I should eat only organically grown fruits and vegetables. He visited the local food co-op in Birchrunville every week, near where Maury, Judy, and her boys had recently moved. Judy had quickly become involved in the community and introduced us to her new neighbors; among them were Hy Mayerson, a local attorney and patron of the arts, and Melvin Goldfield, a long-haired, street-smart graphic artist, painter, and sculptor from South Philly. Melvin had also recently moved to the area and was in the process of building a geodesic dome on Hy’s property for himself and his pregnant girlfriend, Cara Lee. Jim and Melvin began making fruit and vegetable runs to the open-air food market in South Philly. They were in charge of purchasing in bulk for the Kimberton Co-op to help everyone save money. The two had a lot in common: they were both dedicated artists, expectant fathers, and flat broke.
One week, Jim suggested they set out for Philadelphia late on a Friday evening so they could visit a few bars and pool halls before the docks opened at 5 AM the next morning. Melvin didn’t particularly feel like venturing out on the streets that night but consented to show Jim his old neighborhood.
Into the early morning hours the two drank and shot endless games in a dingy pool hall on South Street. Jim became fascinated by Jim Walker, a big, flamboyant black man who seemed to be a fixture at the tables. A crowd of rowdy men and a few lonely women watched in awe as he sank ball after ball with his two-piece, custom-made pool cue. By 3 AM, Jim and Melvin were so tired, and had consumed so many beers, they decided to go to a diner and drink coffee until dawn. Finally they headed out past the Tinikim Swamp to the docks.
“Damn,” said Melvin, “that guy was good!”
“Yeah, man. And he was big!” Jim said. “I’d hate to be on his wrong side.”
“There were plenty of guys like him where I grew up,” Melvin added. “You always had to watch your step ‘cause you never knew who was out to get you.”
Melvin Goldfield was a Jew, raised poor in a tough, racially mixed neighborhood. He was the youngest in a family of five boys, and he remembered his mother telling him how she had to fight off the rats from the junkyard while he nursed. His mother had scraped together what she could for the family, but it was always a difficult existence. Initially, Jim was surprised to hear about Melvin’s raw past. But it was his past that attracted Jim, and he wondered how such a gentle artist had emerged from such rough beginnings.
“Jeez, Melvin, you sure got your lessons in character development early. While we were asking questions like ‘How did you do in shop class?’ you were fighting for survival.”
“Yeah, it was violent.”
“Well, violence is right under the skin,” Jim said. “It’s more natural for man to fight than to levitate.”
“I never saw it that way,” Melvin said.
“Well,” Jim continued as they walked passed a fenced junkyard, “I guess I was pretty mellow until the army. Before that I never even hit anyone. But those sergeants, those eggheads with teeth, they forced me to fight. I remember one officer dropping a guy and kicking him in the head with his helmet on. The soldier was pinned, and the sarge kept yellin’ at him, ‘Fight fair, motherfucker!’ Those kinds of things drove me crazy. I wanted to let my animal loose on him. Shit, even nature isn’t a pacifist.” Suddenly, a predatory, snarling Doberman jumped against the chain-link fence, barking ferociously. Jim was startled and seemed to leap two feet straight up. “Christ, man, that dog scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah, man,” said Melvin with a straight face, “there’s nothin’ meaner than a junkyard dog!”
“Except Big Jim Walker with a knife at your throat on payday.”
A couple of hours later, he and Melvin had a dozen wooden crates of fruits and vegetables loaded in the co-op’s truck and were headed back to the country.
“When is Cara Lee expecting?” Jim asked Melvin.
“In September sometime,” Melvin replied. “I’m really happy about becoming a dad.”
Jim sat back, admiring Melvin’s ability to express his feelings. “Yeah, me too, but it makes me nervous. I don’t really know what to expect, and all the responsibility and shit. Does it scare you?”
“Yeah, but I think becoming a father changes you,” Melvin said. “It definitely brings out my sensitive side. You’ve got to be able to show your feelings, especially with a baby.”
“I’m not very good at that,” Jim admitted. His voice had grown serious.
“But what about all those sweet lyrics you write?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I can write and sing what I feel, but trying to say the words is hard for me.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Jim stared ahead. “Maybe it’s because anytime I tried saying what I really felt, I got slapped for it.”
“I guess parents can be like that if they’re not careful,” Melvin agreed.
“Yeah, and the church does a number on you, too. I remember those vicious nuns beating their rulers across my knuckles just ‘cause they didn’t like my answers. I don’t want it to be like that with my kid. I’m going to love my kid no matter what he wants to do. I’m going to let him express who he really is . . . or she is.”
“You sure learned how to express yourself on your guitar,” Melvin said. “Man, I wish I could play like that.”
Jim smiled then shrugged. “It just takes practice, Melvin. In fact, to be a really good musician, that’s about all you can do—practice. Just play all the time. Maybe that’s why I love music so much. It’s a great excuse not to get a real job.”
“Well, I’m not thinking about becoming a professional or anything, man, but do you think I could learn to play?” Melvin gave him a sidelong glance.
“Sure, I’ll teach you.”
After dinner on Tuesday, Jim drove to Melvin’s to give him his first guitar lesson. “Tonight, you learn,” he said in an exaggerated Italian manner, reminiscent of his grandfather. Jim was an excellent teacher, and he enjoyed helping others conquer what came so easily to him. He unpacked his guitar and began the lesson.
The admiration was mutual. Jim respected Melvin�
��s art as much as Melvin enjoyed Jim’s music.
I called Melvin’s at about 2 AM. Jim came to the phone, just sober enough to say, “I’ll be right home, sweet thing. I’m sorry.”
I was waiting up in the living room when Jim pulled up, driving the truck across the front yard.
“I’m sorry I got so fucked up, Ing,” he said, apologizing like a bad little boy as he walked into the house. “I was just having some fun.”
“I’m glad, Jim—I want you to have fun.” I hugged him. “Just remember to call me next time when you’re going to be late, so I don’t have to worry. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
He swept me into his arms.
“I promise I’ll call you next time. You’re so beautiful, Ing. I think you’re even prettier when you’re pregnant. You’re softer and rounder and . . . Let’s go upstairs and make love.” I started up the steps to the bedroom as Jim lingered behind to watch me.
_____
Although Jim worked with truck drivers and construction workers all day, living in Lyndell’s creative surroundings gave him the opportunity to express himself. He liked the fact that we were putting down roots in a community. He began to appreciate his friendships and made a concerted effort to strengthen bonds with those he held dear. One of those was Maury, whom he had begun to regard not only for his fine qualities as a musician but for his intelligent sensitivity. After practice sessions at the house every day, they talked about life and relationships. Although much younger, Maury seemed impressively mature.
“What happened to your parental guilt?” Jim asked Maury one afternoon. “You were raised Catholic. How come it didn’t affect you like the rest of us?”
Maury sat back in his armchair. “I guess having all those nuns around me at school made me feel loved.” Maury smiled, brushed back his hair, and began playing his guitar.
