WRITING: Anger

The matter of the Clatters is a legend of the West, and how they saved their little town of Hard Times in Montana.  Mr. Clatter was a short-fused man, his wife a boiling cauldron and their seven children followed suit in order.  Their covered wagon, people say, was patched and tattered by the trip from Massachusetts to Ohio and the Trail.  The holes were shotgun blown as Mr. C. was often prone to grab the trusty muzzleloader in conversation while Mrs. C just fired away and children scattered.

But way out west was just the place for folks who liked to face-off in a loud and ringing fight till the smoke blew over.  And their neighbors learned to shut their ears or sigh and call on Jesus and in one instance, did just that and ran for cover.

Winter winds and tons of snow befell the pioneers one year and soon they had to cluster in the town.  To share the wood, to pool their food, to vainly hope for something good to come their way from out East on the railway.  By the end of that grey January the people swore against the saints, but silently of course, except the Clatters.  Who railed and ranted happily until it came to be that Old Engine 97 slowly hissed into the station. 

With no more coal and little wood, the train was bound to stick around until the local doc had an idea.  They needed food, to sell their wares, they needed what the great iron monster offered.  So for the cause without a pause the Clatters (good folk underneath it all) were harnessed for their energy and spitfire.  Mr. C. proudly blustered beside the engineer and let off steam enough to run the train to California.  And Mrs. C., though quieter without her man, was driven and inspired by folks who welcomed all the fire that she could muster. 

So all survived the winter blights, and in the April moonlit nights, the weary Clatters quietly went to bed.  Exhausting all the pent up rage, they spent the years without the waging wars they shared for years in younger days.  But sad to say, and this is true, that Indians came and scalped the crew, although some say (and not that it really matters) that the family fumed and fought, and one and all they blew their top, a fitting end, I suppose, to all the Clatters.