Hoofer's Daughter (Revisited)

I'm a hoofer's daughter and that's what I'll be. I shuffled my way to Asheville, N.C. Up into the mountains, the mountains high. Far beyond the continental divide.


My father gave up dancing in the year that I was born, but his love for the stage--still lingered on. So he did all he could, to teach me what he knew; he did all he could to teach me everything he knew


It was the first day of September in the year that I turned ten. "Daddy won't you show me your time step again." "I'd love to show you daughter, but my break's almost through; so just keep on tappin' cause I believe in you."


Back in San Francisco, it was a usual day; in a town where two bridges span that golden gateway. "Your shuffles and your slides, daddy won't you show me how you did it." "Just a couple of riffs my dear cause I've only got a minute."


"I've got to drive this city bus, like I do every day. To make our family's living--cause there's no other way. Still I'd love to show you honey, but my workday's far from through, so just keep on tappin' cause your ole dad believes in you."


I'm a hoofer's daughter, and that's just what I'll be. Still shuffling my way through Asheville, N.C. Up into the mountains the mountains so high; far beyond the continental divide--far beyond the continental divide



c2012, Florence Mayberry

Red-Tail

I was startled by the cawing of two large crows today

As I blissfully soaked in the warmth of the sun and its unexpected rays

Cawing out their first reproach, I turned around to see

The sight of two big blackbirds circling round as thieves would be

What was the cause and nature of this unexpected rouse?

I looked above and saw a red-tail hawk sailing just below the clouds

Heading right in my direction on a current it did flee

soaring high, swirling wide and seeking out a nearby tree

Where America Shops

Christmas was always a busy time of the year in my family. My mother was one of these people that bought gifts well in advance so that she was done with her shopping before the “holiday rush” even began and could sit back and entertain herself by watching the rest of us go through the crazy antics generated by last minute shopping. Not so with my dad. He was good at picking out gifts; however, his process, rather than being the smooth one that my mother’s was, inspired an anxiety producing last minute buying experience that involved multiple people (usually grandma and me, and sometimes my uncle) and revolved around obtaining just the “right gift” for my mom. I can remember grandma and me running all over town looking for a black “Persian lamb shrug.” What was Persian lamb, and what was a shrug? Neither grandma nor I really knew. It was just something my dad had heard my mom mention she might like, in passing, during one of their conversations over the course of the year. While my mom had a collection of department store credit cards, my dad opted for only one. It was the card he used to service the family car, and was his first stop for all purchases. It was where America shops.

The Sears Roebuck store stood like a seemingly window-less fortress that served as a refuge for shoppers from 1951 until its closing in 1990. Its low-rise architectural structure and multiple parking lots, which seemed quite modern for its day, encompassed an entire city square block and tended to diminish the presence of lesser buildings nearby on its hillside perch at the corner of Geary and Masonic Boulevards in San Francisco. It stood on the 38 Geary bus line where crowds of shoppers were always gathered at the windy bus stop outside the front entrance during business hours, shuffling shopping bags filled with Christmas gifts, while waiting to be picked up. Once the bulbous green and white Muni bus swerved, whined, and jerked its way into the designated space, the struggle was on. Those of us, experienced Muni riders, were familiar with the drill. Only the most adept, the most strategically astute, and the most fleet of foot of potential riders had any chance of boarding the already overcrowded bus during the holiday season in front of Sears. Inside, I’d spent many a holiday season pushing through the crowded aisles with my parents, past the perfume counter, and the candy and nut concession stands, with its enticing aroma of freshly roasting Cashews, and Brazil nuts, in route to the garden dept. It was here where we as a family, back in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s made our annual pilgrimage to the tree mecca known as the Sears Garden Dept. It was where our live Christmas tree was waiting for us.

My dad would always be the one leading our parade. He seemed to relish the idea of twinkly lights resting upon freshly-cut green tree branches, but he was also a big fan of the shiny aluminum trees that had recently become popular. My mom was simply there for the ride. The parameters were set by dad in advance. Our tradition was always a six foot tall Douglas fir. No other tree would do. My mom, never quite into the spirit of it, always tried to nix the whole thing by asking "Why do we need such a big tree? What about a smaller one Frenchy; couldn't we put it on a table-top? Then we wouldn't need quite so many lights?." I was with dad all the way on this one and was even hoping for a bigger one. The garden dept., freezing cold as it was in December, couldn't dampen dad’s or my enthusiasm. Finally, dad would find the perfect six footer, grasp it by its top and shout out to mom “Frances, what do you think?” Mom would respond with her usual “Let’s just pick one and get out of here, Frenchy, I’m starving.” So, to the cash register we headed and then to the parking lot where Dad would load the tree into the trunk of our big Buick and home we’d go.

It was the holiday season of 1960, and the first Christmas in our newly purchased home. Previous to that, we rented a flat on one of the steepest inclines in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill. The new house in the avenues, although sitting on a gently rolling slope, was almost level by comparison. One evening a couple of days before Christmas I found myself accompanying dad once again to Sears. As usual, dad was on a mission as he directed our steps, this time straight to the sporting goods dept. where we stopped at a lineup of shiny red and blue boys and girls bicycles. “Why don’t you go take a look and see if you find one that you like, dad gestured in the direction of the girls rack. While every year for as long as I could remember, dad always took me for a single shopping trip to Sears, just the two of us, usually to buy and outfit; this was truly unexpected. I had wanted a bike for so long, but living on the "Kearny Street Hill", one of the steepest in the city, made it impossible for me to ride on my street, and the cross street, Broadway, was a main thoroughfare, so congested with traffic that my parents forbade me from even walking across it, let alone riding a bike. There was no other safe place to bike nearby in my urban neighborhood so I simply wanted and waited. “Which one dad,” I asked in a surprised tone. “Any one you want honey,” was his reply. So, I began wandering back and forth between the narrow slices of space that separated the bikes. There was a dizzying array to choose from and for a moment, my mind was a blur and I couldn’t think. Finally, I came upon the most beautiful, turquoise colored three-speed I’d ever seen; with whitewall tires and a white pouch hanging on the back. It was stunningly gorgeous--like nothing any of my friends had or could even imagine. I paused and stared at it. “Do you like this one” dad asked. “Yeah,” was my reply; in a tone that belied my excitement about what was before me and after a momentary pause, I continued looking while my heart pounded through my chest at the very thought of owning this most beautiful piece of transportation. Dad must have seen through my facade because he asked “If this is the one you want, I’ll buy it for you.” Yes dad, this is the one" I replied in a controlled yet breathless voice. “Well good, said dad; “we’ll take it.”

After the sales clerk rang up the sale and dad produced his Sears card, we were once again headed to the parking lot to load up the Buick with the best Christmas present I ever received. On the way to our car dad said to me, his voice dropping a bit in tone as he patted me gently on the shoulder “Now you know this is your Christmas present from your dear ole dad.” I turned to him and said “I know dad,” it’s our annual shopping trip right?” “Right,” replied dad and we headed home.

Hello Yellow ...

I saw a cluster of daffodils

bright and yellow as they grew

struggling against the blustery winds

as if they never knew

it was the dead of winter

nowhere near the edge of spring

Was it global warming that caused

their internal bell to ring?

Vaudeville "Hoofer"

Today, June 15th is the day my father was born. Thinking of him on his birthday and also the fact that Father's Day is this Sunday is what motivated me to write the song "Hoofer's" daughter" to honor him.

My dad was a tap dancer on the vaudeville circuit, which was a series of theaters in strategic cities across the country. These theaters offered a wide variety of entertainment that they brought together on a single bill. They were immensely popular and operated for decades beginning before the turn of the 20th century and continuing throughout the 1930's. These vaudeville theaters featured a variety of acts such as singers, tap dancers, jugglers, female and male impersonators, as well as novelty acts such as performers who could spin on their heads long before the breakdancers who do this trick today, were even born.

When my dad met my mother, he was still dancing, but had a "real" job driving a truck during the day. This was around the end of World War II. Once they were married and I came along, my father retired his tap shoes and took a job working as a bus driver for the San Francisco Municipal Railway, commonly known as "Muni." He had a dream though; and it never expired. It was that at least one of his four children would follow in the "old man's footsteps" and show some sort of an interest/talent in performing on stage. Years went by. The older children all grew up and followed their own passions. This left me as his last hope.

Dad's job as a bus driver required him to arise at 4:30 a.m. to be on his bus by 5:30 a.m. As most drivers do, he had a break during the midday. These breaks lasted a couple of hours, which was just long enough for him to come home and relax a bit. Frequently his breaks coincided with my arrival from school.

Dad would arrive, forehead glistening with sweat and often clutching a white cotton handkerchief that he kept in his back pocket in order to wipe the moisture from his forehead. He'd be wearing his navy blue uniform that featured a jacket with brass buttoned epaulets, and a zipper up the front; standard issue light blue shirt; navy blue tie; matching uniform pants; and cap with the "Muni" emblem across the front, which he always wore cocked back on his head. On his ring finger was his only adornment; a heavy silver ring, which he never ever removed. Through a child's eyes, his uniform made him look like a police officer. He jingled with every step he made as he entered through the front door and up the steps to our second floor flat, because of all of the loose change that filled his pockets; nickels, dimes, quarters, half dollars, all with which to make change. He'd head for the kitchen and hang his heavy jacket on his chair at the dinette table and begin to unwrap a tuna burger that he had just purchased from the Tic Toc drive-in on his way home. Once his lunch was completed, he'd slump back into his chair.

Meanwhile, I'd be tapping away on the kitchen floor; repeating the time step the way I'd learned it at dance class and relishing the sounds that I made when my shoes hit the linoleum floor. "If you're going to do it, you need to do it right," he'd say. And that was just enough impetus to draw him out of his seat and onto the floor. "This is how Bill Robinson did a time step." "Bojangles" is what they called him; the greatest tap dancer that ever lived." One, two, three and four; dad did it so fast. Next I'd try it. Finally, he'd end with a series of blinding shuffles and slides the way he did it when he was on stage. "Wow dad," was all I could say. "That's not the way Betty May showed us." After that explosive finale, he'd grab his white handkerchief and mop the sweat that was running down his face, secure his suspenders back on his shoulders, and say "That's it for today. This is enough to give your dear ole dad a heart attack. I'm not as young or as thin as I used to be, you know." He'd then glance down at me and say "On second thought, just do it the way your dancing teacher showed you. I think that would be best.

Hoofer's Daughter (A tribute to my father, Robert "Frenchy" French)

Well, I'm a hoofer's daughter and that's what I'll be.
I shuffled my way to Asheville, N.C.
Up into the mountains and across the hills
Across the hills and byways.

Daddy gave up dancing on the day I was born
But his love of the stage still lingered on
So he did all he could to teach me everything
Teach me everything that he knew.

"Tap two, three, four,
now that's what I've been looking for.
practice your steps and you'll go far,
if you want to be a star one day."


Back in San Francisco, I'll take you away
Home to the bridges and that big old bay
Daddy won't you show me how to make the grade
Cause I want to be a star one day.

And he said "tap, two, three, four,
Heel toe shuffle now give me one one more
Practice your steps and you'll go far
If you want to be a star one day.

"And won't you do a time step like Bojangles did It."
"You'd better hurry daughter, cause I only got a minute.
Got to get back to work and drive this Muni Bus
Drive this big bus today."

Cause I'm a hoofer's daughter and I'm proud to be
Still shuffling my way through Asheville, N.C.
Up into the mountains and across the hills
Across the hills and byways I can here him count

"Tap two, three, four, heel toe shuffle now give me one more
Practice these steps and you'll be a big star
But you're my little star today."


Lyrics by: Florence R. Mayberry
Bat Cave, North Carolina
June 15, 2011; revised April 9, 2012

My first winter on the mountain

As fall 2010 reaches its midpoint with winter in view, I'm thinking back on our arrival on the mountain last November 2009--just in time to rake a massive amount of leaves that had fallen on our property and prepare for winter. It was a record-breaking season with more snow than anyone had ever seen. It was a winter that mountain dwellers will never forget.

February 15, 2010, 3:00 p.m.: An hour ago snowflakes began covering the aproximately eight inches of accummulation that already lay on the ground from the previous week. It's coming down at a rather blinding rate of speed here in Bat Cave North Carolina. CNN predicted it, in fact, Don Lemmon showed us live video streams of scenes in Alanta and Mobile that looked pretty much the same as what I was viewing sitting on my living room couch. So fast were the clouds traveling across the sky and the precipitation coming that my little cockapoo Holly, bolted outside and began barking in all directions, standing her ground as if defending her property from an intruder. Little Pisgah, the mountain that looks down into my bedroom window from 4250 ft. elevation, the one that's greeted me every morning for the past three months as I've arisen from my bed and gone through my ritual of sweeping open my verticle blinds, has seemingly disappeared behind a curtain of fog. It was there a couple of hours ago.

The feeling of being wrapped in dense clouds is giving me an unexpected sense of security. I've decided to make a slow simmering soup. I'm hunkering down for a long haul. Visibility is about 50 feet. I'm hearing regular swoshing sounds coming from my well-insulated house. Turns out its a mini avalanche of snow sliding down my A-frame roof once it reaches its saturation point-it can handle no more and expells the excess in the form of fluffy drifts onto my wrap-around deck. Under these circumstances, walking out our front door could actually cause us to get knocked down by the heavy load. My husband Pete, and Holly went into Asheville to return the generator we purchased from Home Depot just before last weeks snow fall-it's not powerful enough. It started snowing after he left, and now he thinks he and Holly may not be able to make it home tonight. Navigating the narrow mountain road that leads to our house even on a sunny summer day, is a test of ones driving skill. With snow on the ground it's nearly impossible. Locals regularly abandon their vehicles at Middlefork and take to walking the rest of the way. Mine as well as other driveways are being used as way-stations for residents whose vehicles can't make it any farther.

9:30 p.m. Pete and Holly walk through the front door covered in snow which they track on the carpet as they enter the living room. I leap to my feet in surprise as I didn't expect them to make it up the icy mountain roads tonight. Knowing Pete, I was certain he took some unnecessary chances driving home. I was afraid to ask, but Pete was anxious to describe to me just how he had to pass all those no-driving people on the interstate who slowed their vehicles to a crawl just because of some snow flurries.

Next day, February 16, 9:30 a.m. I'm awakened by rustling of trees and deep bellows caused by the force of the wind as it races across the holler (all this time I've been referring to it as a hollow until a local set me straight). The sound stirs me to an upright position in bed. I rise and slightly separate the blinds in order to take a peek outside. There seem to be light snow flurries, but I can't tell for sure so I rub my eyes, hoping for more clarity and finally reach for my glasses for confirmation. Pisgah has reappeared. The first signs of sunshine seep into the bedroom through my open door. As I make my way to the living room, the sun is now shining brightly on my deck reflecting the perfectly smooth blanket of snow that covers it from end to end. The suns reflection upon the snow causes the deck to take on an appearance of shattered glass on white carpet. Three hours later, the snow finally shows signs of giving way to the suns insistent rays and my roof begins to drip drip drip from the overhead gutters. Fire and ice, a curious combination.