Croce

 August, 1973. It was just a moment in time, not unlike a million others in a long, eventful life.

My cousin and I walked down the Wildwood boardwalk in the early evening hours. The surf whispered a soft tune in the distance, muted by the jangly carnival sounds of the rides and games.

I used to go down to Aunt Millie's house just about every August for a couple of weeks in those days. I can't remember the exact day or date, or exactly why we were there that particular night. Dominic worked at a poker parlor so I could have been walking him to work. Or we could have been there doing what teenage boys do: girl-watching. Or I suppose we could have simply have been out having fun and eating pizza.

Whatever, there was nothing like hanging out on the Wildwood boardwalk in the heart of summer. Oh, the sounds and smells, and the sheer innocence of being young and healthy, with your whole life ahead of you, dreams laid out before you like a bright field of poppies.

So we walked, taking everything in and enjoying the warm air. The sounds of music could be heard in the distance. At the time, there was a local guy who had two very big hits on the radio. One, released in 1972, was an up-tempo, funny song called "You Don't Mess Around With Jim." Then in March of 1973, the boogie-woogie classic "Leroy Brown" came out, and that was being played just about everywhere.

The author and singer of both tunes, an Italian guy from South Philly, was at the very pinnacle of his career. As musical fans (I was not yet an actual musician; that would come about two year later), we liked both songs and were kinda proud to have "one of our own" achieve such massive success. It was cool.

So down the boards we strolled, happily talking about whatever the hell was on our minds that night.

Suddenly, a family appeared out of the crowd. In an instant, we were face-to-face with them, a young man with a moustache, his young wife, and their two-year-old boy, who really seemed to be loving the experience.

Yep, it was Jim, Ingrid and A.J. Croce.

It's funny how these little memories stay with you for a lifetime. I've never, ever forgotten this one. Croce was happy, nice, smiling, and stoned out of his mind, something that two 15/16-year-old found incredibly entertaining.

I don't think we had much to say to him, but I do remember him being very pleasant and engaging. It was obviously a very positive time in his life, and it was very sweet to see such a nice, happy family just enjoying themselves.

So we went on with our lives from there, just a small moment come and gone like a grain of sand washing back out to sea.

Of course, we had no idea that Jim's clock had almost run out. Just about a month later, on September 20, he perished along with five others when the Beechcraft E18S in which they were flying clipped a pecan tree just beyond the runway in Natchitoches, LA and crashed. The cause was determined to be pilot error. Jim Croce was just 30 years old.

The single "I Got a Name" was released (as previously planned) on September 21, just one day after his death. It went on to become only the third posthumous No. 1 single of the rock era (following Otis Redding's "Dock of the Bay" and Janis Joplin's "Me and Bobby McGee."

A week after his death, Ingrid received a letter Jim had mailed while on tour. In it, a weary Croce expressed a desire to quit the music business and take up other pursuits, including movie scripts and short stories, things that wouldn't take him away from his family.

In closing, he wrote: "Remember, it's the first 60 years that count and I've got 30 to go. I love you."