As much as this story is said to be about Jim Croce, the story I read in-between the lines is, in many ways, my story too. I remember a night in 1969 at a club called “The Main Point” just outside of Philadelphia. Jim and Ingrid were opening a show for me. I recall talking with them downstairs under the stage, in the dressing rooms with my girl friend at the time, Jackie Hyde. Jackie was nervous about something.
While Jim and Ingrid were singing onstage Jackie finally said “I’m pregnant.” I looked at Jackie and said “Great! We’ll have to move to the country and give him an Indian name.” Since that night I have had to look at my life through her eyes, and her heart as well as my own. Surely neither Jim or I knew at that time that our lives would be opened to others through the voices of the women we loved. Some of it is pretty good, some of it, as you can imagine, not so pretty. And although Jim is long gone, and I’m still here, the telling of those tales continues without us, whether or not we are walking around.
There is no one I’d trust more to tell my story than my long-time love, wife and partner. Ingrid has not and never will give death an ounce of sympathy or retreat one little bit from the full acknowledgement of what love truly is – a part of herself in the form of Jim Croce. The details of this book are about Jim and Ingrid, but the story is about anyone who has had the good fortune and unbelievable luck to find someone who will tell it with love.
So I say to my old friend, Jim “Buddy, you got more than a name. You’ve got yourself one hell of a gal.”
– Arlo Guthrie