Mayday
“Mayday” is the international radio distress signal used by aircraft and ships to indicate a life-threatening emergency, such as structural failure, fire, or loss of engines, requiring immediate assistance. It is spoken three times in a row (“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday”) to ensure it is understood, originating from the French phrase m’aider (“help me”).
May Days
A culmination of celebrations in this Squall Girl’s life. It’s a time of family get-togethers, great food, a little extra weight being gained, and the loss of funds in the bank account. It is spoken in different phrasings (“Happy Birthday,” “Happy Mother’s Day,” “Happy Anniversary”) multiple times over the month and is most definitely derived from the above because, by the end of May, I will be saying m’aider!
May is here. Warm temperatures are gracing us, flowers are coming up from their long winter slumber and basking in the sun, and boats (you know I had to add that one in) are being launched and sit ready for another season of adventures. For this girl, May launches a month of celebrations. All three of my guys have May birthdays, a week apart from each other. Then Mother’s Day and our anniversary are sprinkled in. It’s a wonderful month of chaos, with all of my favorite things and people coming together.
There is a very special day in this month—on the first day—that, without it, none of the above would have ever existed. I would not have existed. It’s my father’s birthday.
He would be proud of me and this post because he always told me, “Write what you know.” Well, I know love. I was very fortunate to have grown up in the quintessential family environment—the cozy house in the typical neighborhood, with kids riding bikes and playing outside until dark. Family trips were often just visits to relatives’ houses out of state, where our parents played cards and the cousins reconnected. Nights at home sometimes meant later dinners due to sporting practices and the many places my parents had to drive us. While we enjoyed the freedom of childhood, I couldn’t fully understand the stress and worry that came with building that life until I became an adult myself. It was like the curtain being pulled back in The Wizard of Oz and finding out the wizard was just a man—but that man was just as powerful in his actions as any magic spell.
My father, through his actions—not just his words—taught me so much. As a newspaper reporter and later an editor, he would always say, “Don’t say in 10 words what you can say in five.” This is obviously a lesson I did not learn well. He showed me that family came first. He demanded respect—respect for others, but most importantly, respect for ourselves. He never showed the weight of being the anchor; he just held us all in place, gently pulling it up when it was our time to move forward. The GPS in me and my siblings’ lives guided us to our destinations, while still allowing us the ability to override the system should we choose a different course.
It was in his kitchen where the homemade clam chowder was made—a recipe I have barely deviated from over the years because you don’t mess with perfection. It was also where I was introduced to the wonders of the KitchenAid mixer, which was one of my first gifts from him when I got engaged. His now sits on my sister’s kitchen counter, almost 30 years later, still turning out incredible baked goods.
In my children, I see glimpses of him. Hereditary traits are a wonder—the protectiveness of my oldest, the exactness of my youngest, the quick humor, the quiet generosity toward others. But to circle back to the beginning of this entry, he taught—and more than that, showed me—what love was.
Love for my family.
Love for my friends.
Love for my community.
Most importantly, love for myself.
So this is my love letter to him in heaven.
It’s been 27 years since you have blown out a candle, Dad, but one will be lit for you on the first. And as every other toast is made and each piece of cake is cut this month, know that your hand is still guiding me—as I raise a glass, and as I hold the knife that allows me to share the bounty of my life with others.
Happy birthday, James Irvine. Jim. Jimmy. Papa. Dad. I celebrate you today with a smile on my face and warm memories in my heart. Give Mom a kiss from me, relax, and enjoy your Jameson’s while I continue to spin the tales of my life on this written page.
