On Saturday evening, I received a text from my sister with these words, “Did you hear about Kidd Kraddick?” Since I was at dinner with friends, I did not call her, but googled Kidd Kraddick on my phone. I sat in disbelief when I read that he passed away at age 53.
Let me be clear. I never met Kidd Kraddick. But his radio show was a part of my life since 1984. Kidd Kraddick’s radio show chaperoned me through so many mornings. Whether it was during the 10 minute drive to high school, a long commute to a court hearing for work, or just because I wanted to start the day with some laughter, my car was always programmed to 106. 1 KISS FM. And his show was a regular part of my routine. One of the first questions I asked my husband when we moved from Dallas to Temple to Houston, was whether or not I still would be able to listen to his show. For me, Kidd Kraddick wasn’t just a radio personality, but a part of my childhood since I was 11 years old.
This morning I tuned in once again to his show, but did not hear his voice. My eyes dripped tears as I listened to many of his colleagues reminiscing about the good, bad, and in-between moments that transpired between them.
Today also is my Dad’s 78th birthday. I’ve spent 5 years celebrating his birthday without him. It struck me how much of a privilege it is to grow older and witness so many happy moments, but accompanying this joy is also a sense of sorrow. When a piece of your childhood dies, you think about the old and evolving versions of what home means. And how you are so unprepared to reconcile what home was and what it is and what it will never be. That part of the process is so hard, knowing that some of the best parts of your childhood will only be relived through memories and stories, but you will never be able to recreate that single moment of time again.
I am seeking solace and comfort today. Knowing that pieces of my childhood have died, but trying desperately to remember this Dr. Seuss’s saying: “Don’t cry because it’s over, but smile because it happened.”
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
I listened to him in high school and on my commute when I worked in Dallas too. Radhi and I would quote him all the time! Morning radio won’t be the same. Thanks for the post!
I’m so sorry, Rudri, and I can relate so well to what you wrote (so, so movingly) about trying to understand and reconcile the “old and evolving versions of what home means.” I’ve been thinking about this a lot this summer, as we face one dying parent far far away, and the possibility of returning “home” (but where is that really?) to be with my parents as they head into old age. It’s a nostalgic, unsettling and frightening feeling that I can’t put my finger on or define. Your second to last paragraph is so perfect though.
I understand that this day must be a poignant and emotional one for you as you remember your father.
I am so sorry. My thoughts are with you. Xoxo
Dr. Seuss’s advice is very good; one I hope to remember. It’s sad to hear of parts of our childhood, people and establishments pass on…it reminds us we too are mortal.
I am sad that a part of your childhood has slipped away.
You must have had such a wonderful, rich family life – one that you carry with you and pass on to your daughter.
Dr. Seuss is so wise. To this day, I love reading his books.
I am two days late, but I am sending you a hug anyway ((((Rudri)))) Hugs…