by Ingrid Croce
A few days earlier someone had discovered a satchel of drugs at the Natchitoches Parish Fairgrounds. The fair was scheduled to begin in a few days, and the local police believed someone associated with the circus was the most likely recipient of the drugs.
“Can I help you?” Winbarg asked, eyeing the disheveled and disoriented Elliott.
“Hi, my name’s Bob Elliott. I’m a pilot, and I need directions to the airport.”
Winbarg was suspicious, but pointing south, he said, “It’s three miles thataway.” Bob headed out again, trying as best he could to run and make up time. Lieutenant Winbarg got into his car and drove to meet Chief Harry Hyams on the road out to the fairgrounds.
“Chief, I just gave a guy directions to the airport. He claims to be a pilot, but he looked like a circus man to me. He was wearing a wrinkled white shirt and dark blue pants.”
Five minutes later, while Lieutenant Winbarg was still briefing the chief, Bob Elliott went jogging past their squad cars.
“There he goes, Harry,” Winbarg said, pointing to the silhouette. “That’s the guy.” Chief Hyams radioed the two unmarked stakeout cars parked at the fairgrounds near the airport: “Be on the lookout for a white, middle-aged male approaching your position on foot,” he ordered. In the dark, Bob passed the airport sign without seeing it and instead turned right on the next street, Fairgrounds Road.
Within a few minutes, the first stakeout officers heard him running down the road, within ten feet of their car. The officers observed Bob Elliott disappear in a southerly direction into the moonless night. He then came running into view of the second stakeout car.
The officer slowly got out of his car and said, “Hey, buddy! Hold it up! I’m a police officer! Come on over here!”
“Oh, thank God,” said Bob. “Officer, I think I’m lost. I’m a pilot, and I’m trying to get to the airport. Can you give me a lift?”
Without answering, the officer radioed the chief.
“Bring the guy over here,” Hyams replied. “I’ll handle it.” The officers drove over with Elliott and left him in the back seat while they conferred with the chief.
“He says he’s a pilot and needs to get to the airport, Chief. But I’d bet my left nut he ain’t.” Hyams motioned toward the backseat of his own car with a jerk of his head.
“Stick him in the cage, Joe. I’ll run him out and see what develops.”
As Bob got out to switch cars, Hyams demanded, “Let me see your identification.”
“I left it in the plane,” he explained.
Hyams chuckled. “Well, let’s just drive over there so you can show it to me.”
At the airfield, the officer was surprised to see the group of students and the men standing by the plane. As he drove up, he shined his spotlight on Morgan, Maury, and Jim. All three men shielded their eyes, their hearts pounding.
“Good evening, boys,” Hyams said in an exaggerated drawl. “Anybody recognize this guy?”
Morgan walked over to the car, “Yeah, officer. That’s our pilot, Bob Elliott. Is there anything wrong?”
“No, I guess not,” Hyams groaned, and got out and gave Jim and the others an examining stare. “That is, if you want to claim him. He managed to get himself lost out here in our big metropolis. I sure hope he has better luck navigating your plane.”
“Thanks for your help, officer,” Jim yelled out as the chief eased himself back into his patrol car.
“At your service,” Hyams replied matter-of-factly, touching the brim of his cap. “Have a good trip.”
Maury climbed into the Beechcraft and sat in the backseat opposite Ken. George paired up in the aisle with Morgan. Bob Elliott sat at the controls, busily going through a preflight checklist and studying the maps. Jim climbed up on the wing and sat down in the copilot’s seat.
“Flyin’ copilot, are ya?” Doug called up to him.
“Yeah. Maury and I’ve been takin’ lessons.” Before he shut the door, he extended his hand. Doug reached up, and they firmly clasped hands.
“Thanks for everything, Doug.”
“Take care of yourself, and keep turning out those hits.”
Jim shut the door and tightened his seatbelt.
Out the left window Bob yelled, “Clear!” and cranked over the engines. When they began to taxi, Jim looked back and gave one last wave to the fans in the parking area.
Doug got into his GTO and headed back to the university.
Bob Elliott pushed the throttle, and the plane roared down the runway. Once it was airborne, he kept the plane at a slow rate of climb. They were less than thirty feet off the ground and, unknowingly in the dark, aimed directly at a small stand of uncharted trees. Suddenly the plane skimmed the top of the first tree. They rammed into the second tree, and the left wing ripped away. The plane struck the ground and broke apart.
_____
At 4:35 AM Pacific Time, the phone rang. I had been dreaming about my potter’s wheel. It was spinning out of control, and I was trying to keep it balanced, but I couldn’t make it happen. I needed Jim.
Even though I was sound asleep I grabbed it on the first ring, hoping it was him calling.
“Jim?” I asked.
“No, Ing. It’s Mom. Are you all right?”
“Oh, hi, Mom. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Ingrid . . . I was just watching the Today Show. There was a terrible plane crash last night.”
She paused.
“And Jim’s dead, right?”
“Yes, Ing.” She paused. “His plane crashed.”
“And Maury too?”
“Everyone.”
_____
I buried Jim the following Monday at the Hayem Solomon Memorial Park, a small Jewish cemetery in Frazier, Pennsylvania, in the rural countryside near Valley Forge. It rained hard during the funeral. I chose this cemetery for Jim because he had loved the history of the area and because it was near his mother’s home.
Rabbi Louis Kaplan, who had presided over Jim’s conversion and our wedding, officiated.
“When I supervised Jim’s conversion to Judaism,” he said, “I was never sure whether he came to study or if he came to listen to my Bessie Smith records. But it didn’t matter, because he always came with a heart full of love.”
I sat in numbed grief. Sal, Rich Croce, and George Spillane read eulogies that told of their deep love for Jim.
Jay Lasker, president of ABC/Dunhill, recited the eulogy he’d written:
“Some people reach out and feel nothing. Jim reached out and in some way touched everyone. Some talk of love and goodness as if they alone remained its custodian. Jim gave his love and goodness as if it belonged to everyone. He told me last New Year’s Day that he enjoyed taking care of his son’s 2 AM bottle and even his diaper change because it gave him more time to spend with the boy, something he had precious little time for, in light of his heavy travel commitments. We are now all the losers for not being able to spend more time with Jim Croce.”
Finally, the rabbi closed the service with a Jewish parable:
“A rabbi was walking through the marketplace when, lo, the prophet Elijah appeared to him. The rabbi asked Elijah, ‘Is there anyone in this marketplace who has a share in the next world?’ The prophet looked about and answered, ‘No.’ A moment later, two men passed. ‘Wait,’ said Elijah, ‘those two men do have a share in heaven.’ The rabbi approached the men and asked, “What is your occupation?’ They replied, ‘We are jesters; our job is to make men laugh.’”
_____
Four days later, while I was still in Pennsylvania, Adrian celebrated his second birthday. Judy gave a party at her house, but the mood was somber. “Where’s Daddy?” the two-year-old kept asking.
Before we flew back to San Diego, I took Adrian to visit the cemetery. Together we planted a sapling pine tree next to Jim’s grave.
“A plane crash took Daddy away, and he won’t be coming home anymore,” I cried as I tried to explain. Adrian wiped away my tears.
“Don’t cry, Mommy,” he said. “Don’t cry.”
_____
When I returned to San Diego, I found a letter Jim sent from Natchitoches waiting for me. I sang Adrian James to sleep and then went outside to sit on the front steps to read it.
Dear Ing,
I know I haven’t been very nice to you for some time, but I thought it might be of some comfort, Sweet Thing, to understand that you haven’t been the only recipient of JC’s manipulations. But since you can’t hear me and can’t see me, I can’t bullshit, using my sneaky logic and facial movements. I have to write it all down instead, which is lots more permanent. So it can be re-read instead of re-membered, so, it’s really right on the line.
I know that you see me for what I am, or should I say, as who I are. ’Cause I’ve been lots of people. If Medusa had personalities or attitudes instead of snakes for her features, her name would have been Jim Croce. But that’s unfair to you and it’s also unhealthy for me. And I now want to be the oldest man around, a man with a face full of wrinkles and lots of wisdom.
So this is a birth note, Baby. And when I get back everything will be different. We’re gonna have a life together, Ing, I promise. I’m gonna concentrate on my health. I’m gonna become a public hermit. I’m gonna get my Masters Degree. I’m gonna write short stories and movie scripts. Who knows, I might even get a tan.
Give a kiss to my little man and tell him Daddy loves him.
Remember, it’s the first sixty years that count and I’ve got thirty to go.
I Love you,
Jim
EPILOGUE
WHEN I HEARD THE TERRIBLE NEWS that my husband was gone, I felt broken. The thought that our son would grow up and never know his father devastated me.
For over a decade after losing Jim, I stayed busy raising Adrian James as a single mom and fighting for our rights in court. Finally, in 1984, when I was considering my next step after all the litigation was over—including a wrongful death suit in Texas, the closing of the estate in San Diego, and the lawsuit in New York over contracts and royalties—a friend called and told me she knew of an open storefront for rent in downtown San Diego’s undeveloped Gaslamp Quarter.
I went to see the space in the historic Keating Building at the corner of Fifth and F Street, and immediately recognized it as the same place where Jim and I stopped on our last night together. We’d been looking for dinner and live music in our new hometown, and when we couldn’t find it, we joked about opening a restaurant and bar together in that very spot Jim had suggested. I saw it as a sign. We’d invite fellow musicians to perform and friends to enjoy great food, as we’d done at our Pennsylvania farmhouse.
I signed my lease that week, and Croce’s Restaurant was born as a tribute to Jim. I hoped to recreate the warmth and ambience from our early days of entertaining together in the ‘60s. After waiting a year and half to get our liquor license in the dilapidated downtown, I took a second lease and opened Croce’s Jazz Bar, right next door to the restaurant.
Adrian James, already a fine piano player and singer-songwriter at the age of fifteen, honed his talent playing at Croce’s. After releasing his first CD on Private Records at just nineteen, he was on his own as a solo artist. Today, Adrian James, known as A.J., is a successful singer-songwriter, guitarist, piano player extraordinaire, and self-taught musicologist. He runs a record company, Seedling Records; works with me managing Croce Music Group; and has a wonderful family of his own.
Every day I am grateful for all the wonderful people who join us at Croce’s. I love to hear their stories about how Jim’s music changed their lives, and in exchange I’m thankful for the opportunity to offer them a taste of the kind of hospitality Jim and I shared with our friends and family.
Over the years, I have often been asked when there would be a Jim Croce biography and movie. There were many opportunities, but the time was never right.
Now it is 2012, and I have completed the Jim Croce story. The book was cowritten with my husband, Jimmy Rock. I met him fourteen years after Jim Croce passed away. Jimmy Rock was thirty-seven, raised on a farm, never married, a pilot, drummer, singer-songwriter, and attorney. After everything I’d been through, including the years I spent in litigation, I never wanted to fall for another musician or even meet another attorney, but Jimmy and I were both surprised to find love at table 21 at Croce’s.
When we were engaged in 1988, I asked Jimmy to leave his law practice to write this book with me. He tried to impress upon me that this would be a very daunting task, and unusual for a second husband to help write the biography of the first husband. Stubbornly, I persisted, and in 1991 we finished our first draft.
We spent years researching and writing the manuscript, but in the end I still wasn’t ready to tell my story. So we put it away, hoping that someday the right time and circumstances would come to edit and publish it for Jim’s fans.
When we’d started on this journey, Jimmy and I taped and filmed as many of Jim Croce’s family members, friends, and fellow performers as possible. Jim’s mother, Flora, kindly gave us everything she had of Jim’s to help us with the project, as did Jim’s brother, Rich. Fortunately we did our research when we did, as sadly, many people have since passed on.
During the years Jim Croce and I were together, we’d taped almost every one of our music sessions on a Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder, and later on cassette. Though almost all of his well-known songs were written at our kitchen table, when Jim wrote songs at construction sites or on tour, he taped them, too. So we were able to track the development of his lyrics and melodies.
On March 16, 1987, the night before a fire burned A.J.’s and my home to the ground, I had fortuitously taken all of Jim’s photos and memorabilia to the restaurant to hang on the walls. I am admittedly a bit compulsive and have saved everything in a fairly organized fashion, from Jim’s recordings, notebooks, letters, and diaries to press releases, travel schedules, books, medical records, family keepsakes, and even his brass baby shoes.
In 1989, while doing research for this biography, Jimmy Rock, A.J., and I chartered a private plane to fly to the small airport in Natchitoches, Louisiana, where Jim’s life ended. We visited Prather Auditorium at Northwestern University and met with fans who attended Jim’s final concert. After the visit, we drove back to the airfield and took off in the small plane, rising into the sky above the spot where Jim’s plane crashed. After all those years, I finally found closure. And so, if nothing else, I knew that writing this book had given me that opportunity.
Then, one day in 2010, we ran into an old friend of ours, David Klowden, who had lived at our home when he and A.J. had a band together back in the late ‘80s. As close to a family member as he could be, David was, in addition to a musician, a writer, editor, and teacher, and one of the kindest and most down-to-earth people I know. Because Jim Croce was a private man, we wanted a compassionate friend with whom to work. So we asked if he would consider editing our book with us, and this is the fruit of our labor.
The stories I told about my life in my cookbook, Thyme in a Bottle, were more delicious versions of what happened because they were written to provide a meaningful context for the recipes I’d collected over the years and perfected at Croce’s Restaurant and Jazz Bar.
But this book is not an idealized version of that time. The gritty reality of the amphetamine-driven truckers’ culture in “Speedball Tucker,” the tale of a man’s broken dreams in “Workin’ at the Car Wash Blues,” the theme of failure in “New York’s Not My Home” and “Box #10,” the rock ’n ’roll madness of “Five Short Minutes of Lovin’,” and the anger of losing a relationship in “One Less Set of Footsteps” are as truly a part of this story as the romantic sentiments of “Alabama Rain,” “I’ll Have to Say I Love You in a Song,” “Photographs and Memories,” and “Time in a Bottle.” Jim put his life to music. His experiences and observations are memorable and resonate with us because they’re real.
I hope in reading this book you cam
e to understand that although Jim was far from perfect, his greatest flaws derived from the same source as his greatest gifts: he wanted to make everyone happy. I also hope that it has inspired you to help me keep his music and memory alive. I know he will be with me forever.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
RECALLING EVERYONE WHO has contributed to telling this story will be difficult, but I’m going to give it a try.
I must begin with Jim’s mom and dad, Flora and Jim Croce, who taught him the lessons of generosity and graciousness and instilled the love of storytelling and song; Rich Croce, Jim’s brother, for his dedication and guidance in the writing of this book; and the Babusci family in Rochester, New York—Linda and Mike Nicosia, Jeanette Fina and Lenny Fina—our relatives who shared their early memories of Jim.
I want to thank my father, Sidney Jacobson, for being like a second dad to Jim, and for always taking the time to listen. I want to thank my family—my twin sister Phyllis Blythe, stepmom Florence Jacobson, sister Janice Kohler, and brother Dr. Ken Jacobson—who welcomed Jim into their lives and loved him unconditionally.
Thanks to Jim’s teachers, priests, rabbis, and the following list of special friends: Special thanks to Paul Wilson, who continues to befriend Jim’s memory with his love and photographs, and to Judy Coffin, my closest friend, whose insights and memories of Maury were significant to this book. Joe Salviulo, Bill and Dee Reid, Rich “Reds” Bass, Emil Cianfrani, Frank Di Serfino, Melvin Goldfield, Chris Sigafoos (wherever you are), Carl and Sheila Feherenbach, Ronnie Miller, Mike DiBenedetto, Deborah Warner, Gene Pistilli, Pat Rosalia, Erin Dickens, Tim Hauser, George Spillane, Carole Spillane, Hy Mayerson, Bob and Ellen Knott, Gene Uphoff, Dolores Meehan, Paul Meehan, Harold and Berenice Jacobs, the Kaltenbach family, Lucille and Phil Petillo, and Larry Himmel. We also want to give special thanks to the Muehleisen family for keeping Maury’s music and memory alive. To learn more about Maury, our dear, dear friend, please visit www.maurymuehleisen.com.
