Making faces amy harmon epub


 

"Making Faces" Making Faces is the story of a small town where five young men go off to war, and Harmon, Amy-The Law of wm-greece.info [Romance] Making Faces by Amy Harmon #[email protected] Amy Harmon - Making wm-greece.info MB. 1 . A Different Blue--Amy wm-greece.info KB. Making Faces by Amy Harmon. by Amy Harmon on June 19, Making Faces is the story of a small town where five young men go off to war, and only one.

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Making Faces Amy Harmon Epub

Amy Harmon is a USA Today and New York Times Bestselling author. Her books are now being Amy Harmon Author (). cover image of Making Faces. Harmon, Amy Sutorius, Running Barefoot: a novel / by Amy Harmon. Everything she makes is deep-fried, and her face has a permanent sheen from the. Amy Harmon is a Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and New York Times Bestselling author. Amy knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to.

Enter your mobile number or email address below and we'll send you a link to download the free Kindle App. Then you can start reading Kindle books on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required. To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number. Would you like to tell us about a lower price? Ambrose Young was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that graced the covers of romance novels, and Fern Taylor would know. She'd been reading them since she was thirteen. But maybe because he was so beautiful he was never someone Fern thought she could have Making Faces is the story of a small town where five young men go off to war, and only one comes back. It is the story of loss. Collective loss, individual loss, loss of beauty, loss of life, loss of identity. It is the tale of one girl's love for a broken boy, and a wounded warrior's love for an unremarkable girl. This is a story of friendship that overcomes heartache, heroism that defies the common definitions, and a modern tale of Beauty and the Beast, where we discover that there is a little beauty and a little beast in all of us.

Fighting is the purest, truest, most elemental thing there is. Some people describe heaven as a sea of unending white. Where choirs sing and loved ones await. But for me, heaven was something else. It sounded like the bell at the beginning of a round, it tasted like adrenaline, it burned like sweat in my eyes and fire in my belly.

It looked like the blur of screaming crowds and an opponent who wanted my blood. For me, heaven was the octagon. Until I met Millie, and heaven became something different. I became something different. No one seemed to see her at all, except for the few who squeezed past her, tossing exasperated looks at her unsmiling face.

Why was it that no one saw her, yet she was the first thing I saw? If heaven was the octagon, then she was my angel at the center of it all, the girl with the power to take me down and lift me up again. The girl I wanted to fight for, the girl I wanted to claim. She doesn't know her real name or when she was born. Abandoned at two and raised by a drifter, she didn't attend school until she was ten years old.

At nineteen, when most kids her age are attending college or moving on with life, she is just a senior in high school. With no mother, no father, no faith, and no future, Blue Echohawk is a difficult student, to say the least.

Tough, hard and overtly sexy, she is the complete opposite of the young British teacher who decides he is up for the challenge, and takes the troublemaker under his wing. This is the story of a nobody who becomes somebody.

Making Faces by Amy Harmon - online free at Epub

It is the story of an unlikely friendship, where hope fosters healing and redemption becomes love. Elena Rosquist was a mid-wife and had delivered several babies who had come without much warning, leaving no time to make the drive to the hospital in Nephi.

We made due by trading on our skills, whether we had an actual sign out front or not.

Eventually, a few new families moved in to Levan, deciding it wasn't all that far to commute to the bigger cities. It was a good place to settle in and a good place to have and create roots. In very small towns the whole town helps raise the kids. Everybody knows who everybody is, and if something or someone is up to no good, it gets back to the parents before a kid can get home to tell his side of it.

The town wasn't much bigger than a square mile, not counting the outer lying farms, but as a child it was my whole world.

Perhaps the smallness of that world made my early loss more bearable, simply because I was looked after and loved by so many. It made my later loss harder to recover from, however, because it was a collective loss, a very young life snuffed out on the brink, a shock to the sleepy community. No one expected me to move on.

Like a shoe that has lost its mate is never worn again, I had lost my matching part and didn't know how to run barefoot. The early loss I refer to was the death of my mother. I was just shy of nine years when Janelle Jensen, wife and mother, succumbed to breast cancer. I remember clearly how terrified I was when her beautiful hair had fallen out, and she wore a little pink stocking cap on her baby smooth head. She laughed and said she would get a blonde wig to finally match the rest of the family.

She never did; she was gone too soon. She had been diagnosed with cancer just after Christmas. The cancer had already spread to her lungs and was inoperable. By the 4th of July she'd already been dead for two weeks. I remember hearing the first sounds of celebration commemorating our country's independence, hating the independence that had been suddenly forced upon me. The jarring crack, boom, and wizz of neighborhood fireworks had my dad's lips tightening and his hands clenching.

He'd looked at us, his four somber tow-heads, and tried to smile. So she named each of her babies a 'J' name to fit the mold. She wasn't terribly original, because in Levan you'll find families with all 'K' names, all 'B' names, all 'Q' names. You name the letter, and we've got it. People even have 'themes' for their children's names - giving them monikers like Brodeo and Justa Cowgirl.

I'm not kidding. I don't know why I remember this, small as it was, but in the days and weeks before my mom died, I don't ever remember her tripping over any of our names. Perhaps the distracting details of daily life that had once made her tongue tied dissolved in their insignificance, and she gave her rapt attention to our every word, our every expression, our every move.

Amy Harmon

We didn't make it in to see the big fireworks that year. My brothers and I wandered out to watch the neighbors set off bottle rockets and spinners, and my dad spent the night in the barn trying to escape the mocking sounds of revelry. Hard work became my dad's anecdote to depression; he worked endlessly and let alcohol blur the cracks in between. We had a small farm with chickens and cows and horses, but farming didn't pay well, and my dad worked at the power plant in Nephi to make a living.

With three brothers who were much older than I, my duties on our little farm were minimal. My dad did need a housekeeper and a cook though, and I expected myself to fill my mother's shoes. Jacob, Jared, and Johnny were 7, 6, and 5 years older than I was; My mom always said I was a beautiful surprise and, when she was alive, I had relished the fact that I was the baby girl, doted upon by the whole family.

But with Mom gone everything changed, and nobody wanted a baby anymore. Initially, we had more help than we knew what to do with. Levan is the only town I know where no assignments are ever made to feed a family after a funeral. Traditionally, we have our viewings the day before the funeral and then again for an hour right before the service. After the funeral and the burial the family and friends come back to the church for a huge meal served up by the good women of the town.

No one ever says "I'll bring a cake," or "I'll supply the potatoes. The women of Levan can make a spread unlike anything you've ever seen. I remember walking along the tables laden with food after my mother's funeral, looking at the beautiful assortment, and not having any desire to eat a single bite.

I was just shy of nine years when Janelle Jensen, wife and mother, succumbed to breast cancer. I remember clearly how terrified I was when her beautiful hair had fallen out, and she wore a little pink stocking cap on her baby smooth head.

She laughed and said she would get a blonde wig to finally match the rest of the family. She never did; she was gone too soon. She had been diagnosed with cancer just after Christmas. The cancer had already spread to her lungs and was inoperable. By the 4th of July she'd already been dead for two weeks. I remember hearing the first sounds of celebration commemorating our country's independence, hating the independence that had been suddenly forced upon me.

The jarring crack, boom, and wizz of neighborhood fireworks had my dad's lips tightening and his hands clenching. He'd looked at us, his four somber tow-heads, and tried to smile. So she named each of her babies a 'J' name to fit the mold. She wasn't terribly original, because in Levan you'll find families with all 'K' names, all 'B' names, all 'Q' names. You name the letter, and we've got it.

People even have 'themes' for their children's names - giving them monikers like Brodeo and Justa Cowgirl. I'm not kidding. I don't know why I remember this, small as it was, but in the days and weeks before my mom died, I don't ever remember her tripping over any of our names.

Perhaps the distracting details of daily life that had once made her tongue tied dissolved in their insignificance, and she gave her rapt attention to our every word, our every expression, our every move.

Amy Harmon

We didn't make it in to see the big fireworks that year. My brothers and I wandered out to watch the neighbors set off bottle rockets and spinners, and my dad spent the night in the barn trying to escape the mocking sounds of revelry.

Hard work became my dad's anecdote to depression; he worked endlessly and let alcohol blur the cracks in between. We had a small farm with chickens and cows and horses, but farming didn't pay well, and my dad worked at the power plant in Nephi to make a living.

With three brothers who were much older than I, my duties on our little farm were minimal.

My dad did need a housekeeper and a cook though, and I expected myself to fill my mother's shoes. Jacob, Jared, and Johnny were 7, 6, and 5 years older than I was; My mom always said I was a beautiful surprise and, when she was alive, I had relished the fact that I was the baby girl, doted upon by the whole family. But with Mom gone everything changed, and nobody wanted a baby anymore. Initially, we had more help than we knew what to do with. Levan is the only town I know where no assignments are ever made to feed a family after a funeral.

Traditionally, we have our viewings the day before the funeral and then again for an hour right before the service. After the funeral and the burial the family and friends come back to the church for a huge meal served up by the good women of the town.

No one ever says "I'll bring a cake," or "I'll supply the potatoes. The women of Levan can make a spread unlike anything you've ever seen. I remember walking along the tables laden with food after my mother's funeral, looking at the beautiful assortment, and not having any desire to eat a single bite. I was too young to understand the concept of comfort food. The bounty continued for days on end after the funeral.

Someone different brought dinner every night for three weeks. Nettie Yates, an older woman from down the road, came over almost every other evening and organized the food, putting most of it in containers and freezing it for later.

No family could possibly eat the amount of food we received, even a family with three teenage boys. But eventually the food trickled to a stop, and the people of Levan moved on to other tragedies. My dad wasn't very accomplished in the kitchen, and after months of peanut butter sandwiches and cereal, I asked my Aunt Louise to show me how to make a couple of things.

She came over on a Saturday and showed me the basics. I made her outline in minute detail how to boil water Keep the lid on 'til it boils, pull it off once it does!

I wrote everything down very carefully, making Louise describe each step. I wrote out recipes for pancakes turn them over when they get big moon craters in them , spaghetti a touch of brown sugar in the sauce was Louise's secret , and chocolate chip cookies it's the shortening that makes them soft and puffy.

Louise was frazzled at the end of the day, but I had lists and lists of very detailed instructions, written in my childish hand, taped to the fridge. After a month everyone was sick of pancakes and spaghetti - my brother's never get sick of chocolate chip cookies - and Louise said her head would explode if she "ever had to do that again," so I started asking women from church if I could come over and watch them make dinner.

I did this every time I needed a new recipe. The women were always kind and patient, taking me through the process, describing the ingredients and where to find them in the store or in the garden.

I even drew myself pictures of the cans and the cartons so I wouldn't forget what everything was. I made myself a vegetable chart with colorful depictions of what the TOP of the vegetable looked like ie. We didn't have our own garden the first couple years after Mom died, but Nettie Yates let me raid her garden whenever I wanted. Eventually, she helped me plant my own little vegetable patch that expanded every year. By the time I was in high school, I had a good sized garden that I planted, tended, and harvested by myself.

I learned how to do the wash, separating out the whites from the darks, the grease stained work pants from the regularly soiled clothing. I kept the house cleaned, imagining I was Snow White mothering the seven messy dwarfs. I even pedaled down to the old post office and picked up the mail every day. We didn't have mailboxes in front of our houses in Levan. Instead, everything was delivered to the post office, and each person in the town had a box and a key.

Dad would lay out the things that needed to be sent, and I would make sure they had stamps and were taken to the post office. By the time I was twelve, I knew how to balance a checkbook, and my dad opened a household account for me. From that point on I handled the utilities and the groceries from my account. Dad took care of the farm, and I took care of the house.

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The only thing I did not want to do was look after the chickens. My mother had always taken care of the chickens - feeding them, gathering their eggs, and cleaning up after them.

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