Resume

Making A Website

So, I work for a small company. Because of the recent economic downturns, my employer has suffered a dry spell. The other day I noticed that his 'website' was nothing more than a title page; no links, no pictures, no information. In this day and age, a website has to impress and interact. He asked me if I could design a website for him, since he did not have the money to spend thousands of dollars paying a small firm way too much money. So I took it upon myself to figure out how to create a website by using Apple's iWeb. It took a bit of doing, but I finally managed to design and publish a decent-looking website. He has since told some of his friends about my accomplishment, and they have started to approach me about possibly building a website for them. Here is the website that I designed.

www.accessmuseums.com

U-Turn

Cormac took a breath, he had been running hard for several minutes. His oily black hair was matted to his forehead and tiny drops of condensation had begun to form. His lungs heaved in and out, sucking oxygen out of the wet air. He didn’t exercise much, and smoked cigarettes whenever he could sneak them. Fish could probably survive out of water it was so steamy that night. Belfast was seldom a hot place, but tonight the heat enveloped him. What usually boiled blood in Belfast was the constant tension between the two major populations, the Protestants, loyal to England and the Queen, and the Catholics, who claimed Ireland as their native home. For the most part, these two groups kept to themselves in the country, but in the city of Belfast, they lived on top of one another and violence between the two was common. Though Cormac was Catholic, he avoided confrontation and lacked the fervent piety of many Irish Catholics.
He had taken the wrong way home, but it wasn’t his fault. The safe route to school was a meandering detour around the Protestant neighborhood. His parents were both too busy to drive him to school, so he was forced to walk. His mother worked in a factory, and so did his dad. As they were both raised to be good Catholics, they wanted him to have a good Catholic education, and so he was forced to make the trek to the school and back each day. His black school shoes once shone, but the luster had quickly been scuffed off. The rubber soles had worn down all the way and he walked on the black foam. Though his parents would likely buy him a new pair, times were hard and every request he made was met with interrogation and exasperation. He had a pair of tennis shoes, but, of course, they weren’t allowed at his school. Needless to say, his cheap, worn black shoes were no good for running, and he found himself stumbling as he darted between houses.
An unfortunate, unlikely set of circumstances had pressed him for time. His teacher had made him stay after school because he had gotten caught reading a comic book in class. Sister Mary ruled the classroom with a wooden ruler, and, on a normal day, two or three students went home bearing red welts on their arms. He had the comic behind his bible, but her tiny eyes spied the contraband. He had gotten lost in the pages, absorbed by the grand schemes of villains and the braveness of heroes. WHAP! Immediately he dropped his Bible and clutched his burning wrist.
“Cormac Sarsfield! The Lord will have mercy on your soul, but I may not! See me after class!” then she turned curtly and walked to the head of the classroom. Cormac felt his cheeks burning as his classmates snickered and exchanged amused glances. It was always fun to see the nuns lose their temper, but only if it was at someone else. After school was over, he sat in the classroom while his peers shuffled gleefully out.
“Sister Mary, I’m so sorry. But I must get home, my mother will kill me if I am late, my grandparents are coming today.”
She didn’t immediately reply, and he wasn’t sure she had heard him. Her eyeglasses were propped on the tip of her nose, and she made slow, deliberate marks on the page with her pen. He started to speak again, but, without looking up from her desk, she interrupted.
“I heard you Mister Sarsfield. But you were the one reading the comic, if you wished to get home on time, you should have behaved. You will clean out all the desks thoroughly, and wipe down the chalkboards.”
Sister Mary made him clean out all the desks and wipe down the chalkboard before he could go home. He hurried to finish, and the sinking feeling in his stomach became lower and lower and the minutes ticked by. Before he had left for school that fateful day, his mother told him that his grandparents were coming over at 4 and that he was to be home and scrubbed by the time they arrived. His grandparents possessed the patience of tyrants, and certainly had no grace to give to a greasy little boy. His grandfather was a tall, thin, severe looking man who respected nothing but respect. He reminded Cormac of an owl, the way his head turned slowly from side to side as he constantly observed and re-observed his surroundings. His grandmother rarely spoke, and dabbed her face often with a handkerchief, as if she was constantly warding off a sneeze. She was a stout, sturdy woman, whose large eyeglasses gave Cormac the impression he was under a microscope, or being observed by a naturalist though binoculars. The days that they visited the house was cleaned and fervently scrubbed. Cormac hated it: sitting around and posturing to gain the silent, disapproving approval of his elders. And so he took the shortcut, hoping that the Protestant toughs roaming the streets didn’t spy his Catholic school outfit, but they did.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cormac saw two boys: one was large with a shaved head, the other was smaller but still much bigger than Cormac. They saw him and called out.
“Oi, you!”
“Hey, turn around”
As Cormac’s heart paced faster, so did his stride. What could he do? The rules were the rules. You stay on your side, we stay on ours. When he was younger it was a cruel game, and the worst that ever happened was a black eye or a scrape. Children were cruel, but usually lacked the conviction and audacity to do any real damage. Rocks were thrown and slurs were exchanged, but little ever came of the altercations. It was just boys being boys. But now he was older, though he didn’t feel it. He hadn’t grown as fast as the other boys, and his age made him vulnerable. He was as disadvantaged as it got, and he had never felt more helpless. The Protestant toughs hopped up and sprang after him. Cormac dropped his books and ran with all his might. His rosary banged against his chest and he took a sharp right in-between two homes. He had to get back to Catholic territory. He took a left when he was behind the two houses and sprinted from backyard to backyard, looking over his shoulder frantically to check their progress. They were gaining on him. Cormac had never been a fast runner, but he had never run faster in his life. These boys were bigger, older, and faster; and there were two of them.
He was scared, more scared than he’d ever been. Belfast was a violent city and he had seen and heard much. Clashes between Catholics and Protestants were common. Murals were everywhere, with pictures of Unionists (usually Catholic and Pro-Ireland) or Loyalists (usually Protestant and loyal to England) brandishing guns, and adorned with militant phrases. Cormac had always liked the murals, though he knew that somehow they made things worse. The grim browns and offwhites that characterized the city hurt the eyes, and the murals were a nice change, colorful and busy and daunting.
Hope glistened in his heart as he saw his dividing line, Carnmoney Road. Surely the boys chasing him wouldn’t dare cross into his own neighborhood. He didn’t have many friends, but it didn’t matter who he was; names dropped and when conflict occurred the only fact that mattered was which you were: Protestant or Catholic. Cormac yearned in his heart to escape, but he also wanted to get even. He thought back to school today, when he had been so distracted that Sister Mary caught him unawares. Perhaps, Cormac thought to himself, these boys were so embroiled in the chase they forgot where they were; then he thought that this might not be so good. All this he thought of while hurdling bushes and fences, ducking clotheslines, and dodging to avoid grills, birdbaths, and thorny rosebushes. His small size was an advantage when running. The bigger boys following him received more scrapes and close calls, but all the time they continued running, thinking only of this stupid Catholic and catching it. In his head, Cormac pictured his pursuers being violently attacked by bigger boys, more boys, strength in numbers, the Irish way. The smaller boy was now about 15 yards behind him and gaining. Cormac pushed on, praying that he didn’t slip on the dew that covered the grassy lawns.
Then he saw them, a group of boys he avoided most times, but this would not be one of them. The leader of the group, Seamus Doherty, was the top striker for the Catholic school team. He was tall and brawny and had curly black hair. The boys gathered around him when he stood still, and tagged behind him when he was on the move, like roving satellites. They were all still dressed in their Catholic uniforms, but their shirts were untucked, unbuttoned, and their ties were loosened. Most of the other boys played football too. There was about 8 of them standing in the street, smoking cigarettes and tussling, like young boys did, posing and testing each other, trying to find their place in the world. He had seen them to the right, through the houses, and he knew his pursuers behind him had no idea how close this rough group was. Though these boys often bullied him, Cormac knew that they would defend him, as only Catholics could harass other Catholics. Although he wanted to head straight for them, directly into safe ground, he put off his deliverance. Instead of heading right, he ran straight ahead past them, remembering their position and putting them behind him and his pursuers. Then, he hit a cross street and took a right, so that Seamus and the boys were now to his immediate right. As he ran by the group he yelled.
“Help! Proddy Bastards!”
The group of boys were immediately in the chase, they knew what was going on. They screamed like banshees, in anger and in delight. The two toughs had been so consumed with catching Cormac they had forgotten where they were. He had led them into Catholic territory, and though the two of them could easily pound Cormac, they were now out-numbered and out-matched. Cormac slowed to a stop and the Protestants fell on him and the smaller one hit Cormac once in the mouth and the bigger one was preparing to kick him, but his saviors had arrived.
“Hey you fucks!” cried Seamus, the first to arrive, and kicked the bigger one square in the chest as he turned around in surprise. The big one hit the ground, and the small one froze, eyes wide with fear and bewilderment. Cormac was delighted. The group fell on the two boys and Cormac stood off to the side, admiring his work, pleased by the furious storm of raised arms and swinging legs that rocked his tormentors. He breathed the wet air in and out. The fist of the small boy had smashed his teeth against his lip, and he tasted the warm blood in his mouth.