Molly Moccasins -- Do Nothing Day (Molly Moccasins Adventure Story and Activity Books)

Molly Moccasins is a new kind of book series encouraging all young adventurers to 20 Molly Moccasins Adventure Story and Activity Books: Do Nothing Day.
Table of contents

Alison Dare, The Heart of the Maiden. Big and Small, Room for All. Stiffy Arrives In Australia. Backpacking in the Backyard. Molly and her Moccasins. Quiet As A Mouse. Molly and her Moccasins Read Aloud Version. How to write a great review.

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Continue shopping Checkout Continue shopping. Within each story, Mollys toes tingle in her special moccasins inspiring adventure and reminding her that, a curious mind is never bored. In this story, Mollys enormous energy gets the better of her and her mother tries to help quiet her mind. As they attempt to calm down, Molly begins to see everything as simple shapesand they are everywhere. Her energy ramps right back up when she discovers that if you can see the shapes all around you, you can draw or imagine almost anything! Who knows, maybe I would have bragged eventually and the same thing would have happened.

The Smithsonian Institution was first on my list. Like to talk to your boy if I could. He held his grey felted hat in one hand and ran the other along the rim and then back again, so that he could have been winding rope. They stood for a minute looking at one another, the silence heavy with apology, belligerence, pride, resignation.

I stood behind my father now, wishing I was at the river, or in the barn, anywhere else. Is it true you found a knife, a pretty old one? But everyone knew that Kunkles owned half the mountain. We crossed their land nearly every time we left ours. These were humiliatingly simple questions, like Sunday school for kindergartners, where all the answers are the same: It was more like a pheasant or a steelhead.

It was just passing through, summering over, maybe. We had unspoken agreements with all our neighbors. It was the way it was up there, the only formal agreement anyone had about anything was a deed. No agreements to hunt or fish, but everyone we knew did. Besides, if it was the knife we thought it to be, it was stolen some thirty miles away on the Weippe prairie.

Did it belong to Kunkle any more than the people who farmed the prairie now, or what about the descendants of R. But the arguments stayed in my own head. These objections were for other people, people who argued with authority, people who broke laws, people who did not go to church, people who aired grievances in public, people who gave in to displays of emotion. I looked at father.

His thin lips were set tight against each other, a habit that would eventually cause them to recede completely into his mouth, leaving only tributaries of disapproval to the north and south. Could everyone else read this map? I knew the sheriff would receive the same unquestioning respect we reserved for teachers, even the bad ones, ministers, librarians, and all elected officials. We would give no one reason to doubt or criticize us; those rights were reserved for family. That night after everyone was asleep, I snuck out of the house wearing the moccasins Old Pete had given me a few years back.

I retrieved a few tools from the barn before slipping into the forest, where I followed rivers of moonlight to the big oak tree on the ridge just below the house. There, I buried my marbles--the cat eyes, the blue rheumy one and the big shooters, too. If they could take the knife from me, what was to stop them from taking everything?

The one thing it seemed certain they could not take was the land. I held my own a few days later when Stu Kunkle brought the knife to school and presented it at a special assembly attended by the mayor. A week later, The Clearwater News featured a front-page photo of a beaming Stu and his father. There was an interview with the state historical society director in Boise who hailed the knife an incredible discovery.

The following spring Stu was again pictured on the front page of the local newspaper. This time, instead of the knife, he held a letter up for the camera. A letter from the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D. Young Stu and his mother were taking the train that very afternoon. That night I slipped out again, this time down to the big elm by the pond, where I buried my fishing pole. Martin said with a wide-mouth laugh. Her dress glittered as it shook around her bones. Her husband nodded while his small shoulders did the laughing. He motioned with his hand for her to lower her voice.

In their small group, everyone held a glass of wine. Martin bent over the table to pick up a deviled half-egg. But, you see, my wife has good taste in men. I still have a few left in me. Martin scanned the people around the large room. Small groups just like theirs filled the space with discordant choirs of polite talk. As the wine refilled more and more glasses, the room became less restrained, the murmurs turning into impertinent bursts of unguarded conversation. Around the escargot and bruschetta table, a group of artists and art promoters had become the loudest.

You always tease him about his size, and he never dignifies you with an answer. Margie gave out a sharp laugh. She gulped down the rest of her wine and three men reached for the bottle to fill her glass.

My Little Eye

We were the ones supposed to surprise him with a restaurant party, right? But I give him this: He despises art as ideology. Never paid attention to politics. What is life to him, living away from people like he does? He says the truth in life can only be preserved in art. Margie burst out laughing, then stopped herself and looked for something to fan her face with. There was a stunned silence.

Hey, have you seen my wife? He left the group, making his way with quick steps among the partiers. In the group where he found his wife, Tommy Ryman was quiet for a while. Sarah Ryman, a mousy, graying woman, filled a glass for him. She pinched his cheek. Where have you been, dear? She looked uncomfortable standing and, leaning on the table; she kept moving it and pulling it back. The choir of rumbling chatter imploded, leaving only small humming murmurs here and there.

Morris came through the door, smiling at everyone, and crossed the room while people made a corridor for him. He was dressed in a white suit, perfectly fitting his small, gracefully framed body. As Morris grinned, reassured laughter filled the room. The guests turned toward the podium. He surveyed the room.

His eyes, softened by age under the perfectly white, thick hair, were still inscrutable, narrow and scornful. He was not exactly ugly, but his face was long, with disproportionately high cheekbones, while the drawn cheeks were too stretched even with the multiplicity of wrinkles. His lips, once thick, retained their crooked, protrusive exuberance of form that seemed designed by nature to offend. He grinned again, and his teeth, also, were too big. For a man of his small frame, his face appeared bigger than it should have been, which created an effect of drawing all attention to itself, perversely thwarting any attempts to ignore it—and him by extension.

A few murmurs, a few smiles encouraged him to go on. He picked an empty glass and poured himself a small amount of white wine. He lifted the glass. There was one child with the group. But it was that child who asked me a simple question: Tommy, do you remember? In fact, this gathering today is also a tribute to them, the field dreamers, but also to that Chinese boy who seemed so suddenly concerned with whether I was appropriately fitted for that sacred place where art lives.

To be fair, not everyone has talent. What I was leading up to with my story is a confession to you all, as we celebrate my retirement. But then I asked myself, if your paintings are life, should you not give back to life what you read of life, within life? The moments that I stole on my canvas, moments of ecstatic self-realization, should they not be returned to those who gave them to me? Which is precisely why I gathered you here, instead of going to Chuck E. When life becomes so concentrated, so rewarding in one single moment that it crosses over into the sublime, something in you wants to give it back.

Now, can I bother all of you to follow me? Take your glasses with you—you may need them. With those words, Morris led the gathering through several rooms in his house, to a door that led to a large annex in his back yard—a whole other building, in fact. The first guests to enter gave out small cries of amazement and utter surprise: Yes, the first room is my homage to a place I love, because it taught me that the people I work with are irrelevant, since art is what matters.

How else would I have stuck it out working there? I have meticulously created reproductions of them, and I am quite proud of how close they are to their originals. After the awe at the first room was exhausted, he showed them the second room, on whose walls he had hung original work—mostly cityscapes with strange, larger than life birds hovering above buildings, humanized animals sitting on benches, large, fully clothed larvae crawling on sidewalks, and other anthropomorphic scenes in whose grim comic only he seemed to revel. Morris grunted and nodded as questions about meaning and symbols filled the room.

He abstained from commentary, as wise artists tend to do when confronted with an outpour—genuine or any other variety—of curiosity. The guests looked at each other and their steps hesitated. By the time the last of them made it into the room, there already were gasps and angry shouts from the first people who had entered. Here, about twenty to thirty paintings adorned the well-lit walls.

All of the paintings, without fail, represented women—naked women—an absolute spectacle of mellow shapes and colors. Some were grotesque, yet there was beauty in every single one. Her shoulders were smooth and small, and her timid breasts, already in their declining years, were full of life as she tried to hide them with one hand. On her face, Morris had captured the fleeting joy of a moment, which few had ever seen, possibly not even her husband.

Just then the small, bony woman ran out of the room, followed by her husband. Right next to Mrs. The generously padded buttocks rested on a large pillow, and the glowing-orange skin was spotted in places. That was what the eyes of the remaining guests were saying, many blurred with their bewildered tears.

App Detail » Molly Moccasins -- Kitchen Sink Band

Art begins and ends with being moved. His eyes maintained a steel composure.


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The group scattered, retreated. The shouts of betrayed men exploded again outside the house, mimicking each other, yet each with its own palette of newly discovered disgust. Morris was left alone in the middle of the last room. He was laughing—and not like someone who had just seen grown people fall on ice. It was as if something inside him had at last reached the world outside, and it really did find the world a funny thing.

My mother won the staring contest. Winning against my old man as he hobbled off to board a bus without knowing who my mother was when my mother was around. Then my old man checks himself out of the nuthouse. He never asks to stay with Janelle and me. He knows I know he might do something. Laid off after being fired before being unemployable, my old man knows. I find him stacking rocks into figurines on the boardwalk by the lake. I find him sleeping in stairwells. The oldest babysitter babysitting the oldest baby in the world. For a minute he gets it together. He polishes cars at the car wash.

He sleeps on our living room couch. Then one night at work, he has a gun stuck in his face, lets two masked men empty the register, is fired by the car wash owner surveying the incident and is barred from every other car wash job as a result of the reported robbery. Whatever I do people ride me and when people ride me I never get better, so for what? My old man goes in again and every time is supposed to be his last. Then I check him out of the wing for the neurologically damned and install him in the passenger seat.

I pour the Chocomel and float it to the living room. My old man fidgets with the sun dress to sew up a loose thread. He tries to put himself to work. He tries to be useful. He leaps up and knocks the Chocomel out of my hand. It spills into the fibres of the dress. They call me from another clinic in another area code and say I should move there. I ignore that wound for the next three days. I think about hauling over to that area code. Then my old man dies.

It just stopped beating. I remember the day we went out with my mother and she wanted him to hold her hand and he held it. And this is what I tell myself. I tell myself, this is the real him. This is my dad. Changing his face would not be easy. His nose and cheeks would have to go, his eyebrows could thicken into bushes and his hair might turn flame red or avocado green.

But Mario had no choice. He could already feel a new face forming. He climbed down off his fruit crate and folded up "The Great Zico" sign. After removing his bulb nose and washing off his greasepaint with baby oil, he stored the fruit crate behind a kiosk. He stuffed his white gloves, wig and costume into a backpack and pushed through a wedge of tourists. The muggy night smelled of sweat.

Along the crowded boulevard coins struck tin buckets in front of human statues. Twenty years ago when he had arrived in Barcelona from Argentina there had been one performer on Las Ramblas, a white-haired geezer murdering Mozart on a splintered violin. Now, the wondrous promenade had turned into a carnival lane of Gaudi dragons, alien acrobats and geisha girls. Mario drank a cognac in a Raval sawdust bar, chatted with the barman and counted coins. Ten minutes later, he entered his cramped, fourth floor flat near the port and found his wife Silvia bent over the sewing machine, her twisted fingers feeding a cotton dress across the needle plate.

He circled his long arms into an imaginary basket and manuevered to catch an enormous kiss. Her nose wrinkled, as if she had caught something too: A horn honked down on the street. He dropped his arms and went to the sewing machine. She made no move to turn her mouth upward, so he bent and kissed her perspiring forehead. Three months had passed since the abortion and she still flinched at every affection. Before the final decision, they had talked about the accidental pregnancy, approaching middle age, financial instability, common sense, overpopulation and Downs Syndrome.

Then they had entered the clinic. Silvia had come out in tears and obsessed with the idea of going home to Argentina. Since then their kisses had blown aimlessly through the air or landed on cheeks and foreheads, but never on lips.

My Little Eye

Now she turned her head upward and the overhead bulb gleamed on her damp cheeks. Her fingers tightened on the dress. She meant, would he still bring home a bit of cash, or were her aching hands destined for more dresses? He took the coins out of his pocket and dumped them on the table. They rattled into a flat pile as her gaze moved over them. She turned back to her work, adjusted the stitch length knob and pressed her right tennis shoe onto the foot pedal. The machine began to whirr.

As she leaned forward, her black hair fell over the side of her face. In the bedroom Mario sat on a straight-backed chair in front of the smoky mirror. He wiped his clammy face with a hand towel and stared into his own eyes, detached yet alert. As an adolescent in Buenos Aires, he had apprenticed to Fernando the Fool, who had taught him: It takes rigor and heed. Mario focused his attention on his visage.

Thinking about the abortion had caused his facial muscles to contract. He wiggled his mouth and rolled his head from side to side. Stiffness began to pass out of his neck and shoulders. He tried to banish all Zico smiles and frowns, all memory of Zico performances, not only on Las Ramblas, but in malls, parades, schools and office parties. As he peered and squinted at the mirror, Silvia's tennis shoe tapped on the foot pedal out in the dining room and the machine whirred. He heard impatience in the tapping and annoyance in the whirring.

He became impatient himself. If his new character contained a joyous or suffering heart, he could not say. Nor could he find a name.

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The birthday party and hospital event weighed on him. If he was still doing Zico, he would never discover a new face. Staring at his reflection, he felt increased unease. The Great Zico quivered on his features. His furrowed jowls highlighted Zico gags and pratfalls. The new character would be neither fool nor stooge nor joker, but the face remained hidden on the far side of the mirror.

Something blocked his view, like a shadow shrouding the glass. Then, in the darkness, he discovered two black eyes staring back at him. Despite the stifling heat, he shivered. The eyes made him feel afraid of his own face. The birthday party brought the Great Zico back full force. Even bouyed by the elated shouts of children, Mario left the event perplexed and unsettled. Still, Barcelona's uptown parents had filled his capacious clown pockets with tips, so he decided to risk telling Silvia he was going to cancel the hospital on Saturday.

If he did Zico again, he would bury his new character beneath more shadow. When he entered the apartment, Silvia was just turning off the machine. She reached for the tobacco and rolling papers and rolled a cigarette. Mario dumped two handfuls of change onto the dining room table. She looked at the shiny coins and rolled a second cigarette for him. They went to the open window and leaned out into the humid night. Silvia lit a cigarette, passed it to him and lit the other for herself. Four floors beneath them the narrow street was packed and noisy.

Every night they listened to the same sounds: The neighboring buildings framed a square of sea view, which the statue of Christopher Columbus at the foot of Las Ramblas rose into. Silvia looked past Columbus to a cluster of ship lights in the harbor. After a minute Mario sensed her gaze traveling beyond the lights.

He observed the craggy lines across her forehead. They had appeared after the abortion. He remembered trying to smooth them out with his forefinger, remembered her whispering, "My god, what have we done? Silvia's gaze remained faraway and dreamy but her voice sounded worried and on edge. The hiss seemed to send out a message. He shook his head.

I can't get it when I'm still doing Zico. But maybe you could start saving scraps.


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She looked farther beyond the ship lights. A racket of screeching tires and gunshots came from a neighbor's television. He stuffed his cigarette into the can.

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Same hiss, but no message. The lines across her forehead turned softer. So did her voice. A pair of seagulls circled Columbus and one landed on his outstretched arm. Pointing to the New World, Mario thought. They've got that extra room so it wouldn't be a problem. The pulse at Mario's temples began to throb.

We're not going back to the same stink. He turned back into the apartment, grabbed his backpack and left for Las Ramblas. The dank streets teemed, packed bars about to burst. He walked quickly, weaving his way. He thought about the hospital event the following morning and cursed out loud. An Italian cruise ship had docked in the port that afternoon and well-heeled passengers now swelled the old quarter. In front of the Liceo Opera House, dozens of tourists pressed around two human statues costumed as Predator and Alien.

The pair made threatening gestures while suntanned Italians posed for photos in front of them. Mario pulled his fruit crate out from behind the kiosk but swore again and stuffed it back in place. He pushed through the throngs to the sawdust bar. When he entered, the barman poured him a cognac and said:. The barman swiped a ratty towel over the counter. He wasn't sure if he had spoken financially or emotionally or both, but the barman took his own meaning. Mario sipped cognac and inspected his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Fernando the Fool had taught him that a new character's face was constructed from within, tailor-made not only to project, but to conceal. Mario raised his eyebrows and scrutinized the arch. He searched the mirror for hints of expression, gesture, style. He grinned ecstatically, scowled tragically. The barman poured another cognac.

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Mario had always preferred the street corner to the circus, but now he considered bringing the circus to the street. Clean comedy, he thought. No patter or hokum. Let your audience make the noise. Then the same black eyes appeared again, sending a tremor into his depths. He gulped down the rest of the cognac. He stored the image of the downward-turned mouth in the back of his mind and carried it home to the bedroom mirror. Sitting on the straight-backed chair, he struggled to peer deeper into the wide-eyed gaze, down to the depths where the tremor had stirred him.

Meanwhile, out in the living room, the sewing machine whirred and clacked.