Cynthia L. (Fleury) Massaro, daughter of the late Barbara H. Riley and Richard B. Fleury, granddaughter of the late Patrick J. Riley (1900-1985) and Margaret Cecelia McSally (1900-1938) was born on a Monday. The weather was cloudy and the temperature was in the mid-forties.
Now, Cindy doesn’t like to have too much attention directed toward her, nor does she reveal much information about herself. So, that being the case, whom am I to disclose what her age is today? I do know that on the day she was born, Cecil B. DeMille’s big movie, “Greatest Show on Earth,” was playing out its first run in all the major movie theaters. The second movie feature at that time was Desi Arnaz’s, “Holiday in Havana.” And on that day when Cindy Lee Fleury made her first appearance, President Harry Truman announced that he was not going to run for re-election. I guess Harry knew there wouldn’t be enough limelight for both of them, so he bowed out in Cindy’s favor.
Cindy’s St Leo’s grammar school picture. Guessing it was taken in the 3rd or 4th grade.
How about this one for a throw back?
Then we have a glamour shot.
And because another picture of Cindy will probably annoy her even further:
Happy Birthday, Cindy, and don’t forget, on the day you were born, a shopper could buy 4 jars of A&P’s best marmalade for a $1.05.
It’s a birthday for another of the West Coast Riley family tree contingent. Maeve Francis Mahony, who, not wishing to interfere with her parents’ weekend, entered this world on a Tuesday, such a thoughtful child.
Maeve’s parents, Elizabeth (Daley) Mahony and Thomas Mahony welcomed their second child that sunny 60 degree day. Older brother Liam, who had been around for a few years, probably was a bit anxious over Maeve’s arrival and what it would do to his status. Word is he has managed just fine, even with later addition, Luke.
Here are the Mahony siblings celebrating some type of ethnic observance:
Liam, Maeve and Luke
Just as a reminder, Maeve’s maternal grandparents are the late Joan (Riley) Daley (1919-2019) and Frederick “Nick” Daley (1927-1991) and her great grandfather was the late Patrick J. Riley (1900-1985).
Now, some of this blog’s more observant readers may have said, “Well, he made another mistake. He used the masculine form to spell Maeve’s middle name.” No, no, no, it is not a mistake at all! You see, Maeve has a deep love of animals and a strong spiritual connection to their patron, Saint Francis. When it was time for Maeve’s confirmation, it was Saint Francis’s name she chose. A beautiful reflection of Maeve’s spirituality and personal credo.
Newly Confirmed Maeve Francis Mahony and Father O’Reilly (really, O’Reilly)
Here’s Maeve after a day of skiing at Lake Tahoe
According to her mom, Maeve loves skiing, bike riding, and playing her tenor saxophone. But her true love is cross country running and she hopes to join her high school team this fall.
Maeve has fallen in love with the new family dog Flint, who accompanies her on her training runs in the neighborhood. They make a great team! Maeve attends the local Performing & Fine Arts Academy and enjoys the dance and art theory classes that are sprinkled throughout the school day. Maeve is an absolute joy to be around and makes her family proud.
In this morning’s Providence Sunday Journal (3/21/21), the following article appeared. It was written by John Walsh, who frequently authors thoughtful reflections for the paper’s readers. I thought you might enjoy his latest, especially if you have had the experience of visiting Ireland’s countryside.
‘Sláinte!’ Appreciating random act of kindness in Ireland
John Walsh Guest columnist
Dan Slattery and I stood on the side of the road, 19 miles from Killarney, where our train was scheduled to depart in less than two hours. On break from school in Dublin, we had spent a week hitchhiking around the Ring of Kerry, the famed route on Ireland’s southwestern coast. A slate-gray sky was quickly turning charcoal; soon it would be dark.
The rev of a car engine teased us; the green Escort was traveling in the wrong direction for our purposes. As it barreled by, the driver and passenger waved out of open windows. “Good luck!” one shouted.
“I guess we could go to the church,” I said, pointing to a solemn steeple rising above the town of Kenmare in the distance.
Dan wiped the afternoon’s “soft rain” from his glasses with a handkerchief. “They’d have to take us in, right?” he said. He didn’t sound convinced.
I’d found myself marooned in Ireland before. In September, on the first day of classes, I had been standing at a curb in Dublin for 20 minutes when a white compact car pulled up.
“Waiting for the bus, are you?” the man at the wheel said, craning his head out the window. I nodded.
“Drivers went on strike last night,” he said. “Where are you going?”
The kindly Dubliner gave me a lift to school. When I asked him if the bus drivers had announced the strike beforehand, he cackled.
“Why would they do a thing like that?” he said out of the side of his mouth, his lit cigarette waving at me like a teacher’s ruler. “Defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”
It had been my very own “We’re not in Kansas anymore” moment.
Back on the side of the road with Dan, time passed, but few cars did. A cow mooed from a nearby pasture.
“She’s mocking us,” I said. “Moooove!”
It had taken us two days to hitch our way out of Caherdaniel, a small village on the outer reaches of the Ring, and we had to break the law to do it. After our repeated pleadings for a ride, a lorry driver delivering milk to the village’s only store finally relented.
“Lie down in back and keep your heads low,” he said, pointing to his truck bed. He told us the Gardai – Ireland’s national police – would revoke his license if they caught him transporting anyone.
The milkman brought us to his next stop, a chic hotel. There, Dan and I pooled our last soggy pound notes and hired a taxi. We had enough fare to reach Kenmare, one town short of our destination. The unsmiling driver opened the back doors of his black Mercedes Benz for us, bedraggled
Scene by the side of the road in Caherdaniel, Ireland.
as we were. The car’s warm cabin and soft leather seats were an instant narcoleptic.
“Here you go,” the driver said half an hour later, waking Dan and me. We clambered out of our temporary sanctuary and onto the roadside again.
It was 1980. There were no cellphones, no Zipcars, no public transportation circling the Ring of Kerry. At this point, Dan and I were wholly dependent on the kindness of strangers.
And then two appeared. The green Escort that had sped past us in the wrong direction now returned.
“Still here, are you?” the driver said, his car idling.
We explained our predicament.
“Hop in,” he said. “We’ll get you to your train alright. Might even have time to stop for a jar.”
Before dropping us at the quaint Killarney railway station, our rescuers treated us to pints of Guinness at a nearby pub.
Dan and I raised our glasses – to the lorry driver, to the black Mercedes, and especially to the fine lads sitting across from us. “Sláinte!”
John Walsh (john@walshadv.com), a monthly contributor, is a partner in the East Greenwich-based communications firm Walsh & Associates.
The Cuban Missile Crisis was just beginning. Boston Celtics basketball player Gene Conley became a two sport professional athlete by signing a contract with the Red Sox for an estimated $23,000. All the movie goers were talking about a film titled Days of Wine and Roses starring Jack Lemon and Lee Remick. Vietnam was still a distant place on a map and not many people were paying attention.
But the weather was almost mild that day in Providence when John Patrick Daley was born. The temperature hit 48 degrees and the sun was darting in and out of the clouds. His mom, the late Joan Louise (Riley) Daley (1929-2019) and dad, the late Frederick “Nick” Daley (1927-1991) were happy to tell their two girls, Tammie and Maryanne, that a baby brother was coming home in a few days. By the time the Daley family finished growing, two more girls, Lynne and Beth, had come along. John was frequently out-voted by a four to one count – like that mattered to him.
Time has marched on, John an occupational rehabilitation specialists, is married to Debbie Troufield. John and Deb now have two sons, John Frederick called “Nick” and Patrick John. John was also stepfather to the late Joshua Troufield.
Here is photo of John escorting his mother Joan:
Happy Birthday, John…they are beginning to pile up.
Most people think that on March 17th we celebrate Saint Patrick’s birthday, but that’s not the case. In 461 A.D., Saint Patrick, the Christian missionary, bishop and apostle of Ireland, died at Saul, Downpatrick, Ireland (now Northern Ireland).
The History Channel tells us, (what better source is there?) Patrick was “born in Great Britain, probably in Scotland, to a well-to-do Christian family of Roman citizenship, Patrick was captured and enslaved at age 16 by Irish marauders. For the next six years, he worked as a herder in Ireland, turning to a deepening religious faith for comfort. Following the counsel of a voice he heard in a dream one night, he escaped and found passage on a ship to Britain, where he was eventually reunited with his family.
According to the Confessio, in Britain Patrick had another dream, in which an individual named Victoricus gave him a letter, entitled ‘The Voice of the Irish.’ As he read it, Patrick seemed to hear the voices of Irishmen pleading him to return to their country and walk among them once more. After studying for the priesthood, Patrick was ordained a bishop. He arrived in Ireland in 433 and began preaching the Gospel, converting many thousands of Irish and building churches around the country. After 40 years of living in poverty, teaching, traveling and working tirelessly, Patrick died on March 17, 461 in Saul, where he had built his first church.”
Typical, celebrating death seems to have always been a specialty of the Irish.
A Bit of Trivia
Whispered at many a gathering or even in a family parlor, ” Oh, geez, not another one named Patrick.” Well, in our Riley family tree and its branches, the name Patrick has been scribbled on birth and christening certificates many a time. My father, a Patrick himself, used to say the name was chosen because of the family’s lack of imagination. But, according to the Irish genealogical website I follow, A Letter From Ireland , that might not necessarily be the case.
A Letter From Ireland states, “It has been a tradition in Ireland for many centuries, that anyone born in the month of March has a good chance of being given the name Patrick or Patricia.
That was not always so. Right up until the early 1700s, Patrick was considered too saintly a name to be taken by the masses. That, of course, has changed. By the 1901 census there were almost 300,000 Patricks on the island but only 173 Patricias – the use of the female version is quite a recent development.
In Ireland today, there are almost “40 shades” of Patrick and Patricia:
For Patrick, you will find: Pádraig, Páraic, Paudie, Padge, Pauric, Podge, Pat, Paddy, Patsy and Pa (substitute an “aw” sound for the Irish “á” – that should sound about right).
For Patricia, you will find: Pat, Patsy, Tricia, Trish, Pádraigín and Patrice (for some reason, Patty never caught on here in Ireland).”
So You Say You’re Looking For An Irish Film…
Here’s a random list:
The Guard
The Quiet Man
The Magdalene Sisters
Good Vibrations
Hunger
My Left Foot
Michael Collins
The Wind that Shakes the Barley
The Commitments
Extra Ordinary
Evelyn
Once
Ondine
Sing Street
In the Name of the Father
Brooklyn
Black ’47
The Butcher Boy
Intermission
The Crying Game
Philomena
Into the West
The Book of Kells
P.S. I Love You
The Snapper
Circle of Friends
Waking Ned Divine
Calvary
The Secret of Roan Inish
Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig ort! (Ban-nock-tee na fayla pawd-rig urt). Saint Patrick’s Day Blessings on you – and all of your family!
Joan Louise (Riley) Daleywould have been 92 today (1929-2019). There would have been quite a gathering on Catherine Street later on in the day. Her children, sons-in-law, daughter-in-law, grandchildren and maybe a cousin or two would have come together to celebrate her day. There’d be a pot of tea on the table, some sweet treats and, of course, the Red Sox would be on the radio. Spring training started this week and Joan would be talking optimistically of their chances. She did love her Sox, but in the last couple of years, seeing her grandchildren Jack, Ben and Nick play ball meant much more.
The boys will miss seeing “Nan” sitting in the stands again this year, but in the back of their minds they will hear Joan’s encouraging call.
Joan and Nick hob-nobbing with the elite in Newport
Ben Nelson has a birthday today. Early word was that Middletown High School was really pumped waiting for Ben’s arrival this morning. I mean, come on…look at this guy – a ballplayer, handsome, Nikes match the shirt and he’s got hair, real good hair. In fact, the hair is so good, we may have to check to see why he got such great hair DNA. Yup, it must be nice to have people gaze upon you and admire your head of hair; as opposed to what I normally hear about the sun’s harsh glare reflecting off the top of my noggin.
Happy Birthday, Ben! The sea is behind ya and the future is ahead of ya.
Born on this day in Providence, to Lynne (Daley) Nelson and Russell Nelson. Ben’s grandmother was the late Joan (Riley) Daley (1929-2019) and his great grandfather was the late Patrick J. Riley (1900-1985).
Ben is hoping he and other high schoolers get to have a baseball season this year. Last year’s season never got off the ground because of Covid, hopefully “play ball” is heard across Rhode Island, so Ben and others can take the field.
Staci (Fleury) Ferreira was born on this date in Providence to Darleen (Fisher) Fleury and Richard “Rick” Fleury. The temperature that day was about 24 degrees and the wind was gusting at a fairly good clip. I guess that March 1st came roaring in like a lion, but Staci was her parents’ little lamb.
Here is a found a picture of Staci’s great-grandfather, the late Patrick J. Riley (1900-1985) holding her for the first time. That is Staci’s big brother Tim standing to great grandpa’s right.
Staci, having grown up in Bristol, Rhode Island, graduated from Our Lady of Fatima High School in Warren, RI. She went on to graduate from the University of Rhode Island.
In June of 2009, Staci married Michael Ferreira, also of Bristol, at Saint Catherine’s Church in Warwick, RI. Following their wedding, a very nice reception was held at the Ledgemont County Club in Seekonk, MA.
Staci and Michael have two boys, Zachary and Jacob.
Happy Birthday, Staci! Does this guy know how lucky he is?
19 Pond Street 