Ole Thomy Capin, always had a song in his heart, that was the problem, always had a song widdlin at his soul even when he thought he'd vainish'd those ole creaky toones. You’d think you could talk to him again and he was all playful, making toys out'a string an twine and helping your sister with groceries, but then a guitar wire would show up in his ball of twine or a passing car radio would blast some godforsaken folk music and ole Thomy would start a singing. You see when Thomy gets a singing he hasn’t care in the world, and doesn’t care who he hurts or how he does it and he gets real funny like.
For example, one cold winter’s night, as a light snow fell on our little town, ole Thomy was fiddling away on quiet street corner about his favorite colors, to no one in particular, since us townies know when we need to stay locked up tight indoors by a roaring fire with a hot cup of cocoa quietly praying to whatever might save us. Unfortunately for a young couple who thought they might come down from the sky lodge for some of our famous spiced cider and rustic tales, but without a pub open and all the shops shuttered they slowly circled towards that frantic music like a couple of June bugs hypnotized by the mantis’s prayers that only they can hear. He slowly brought his fiddle to a rhythmic plateau, cutting short verse about how he loved the black of night before the dawn, to say “ Well, you two look like a couple who likes good music, dont’cha? Of, course you do, well we’ll have a good time then, we’ll have a good time then…” Well those two poor youngins should have known better, but ole Thomy’s curly locks, gentle eyes and corduroy jacket would put just about anybody at ease, not to mention Thomy’s downright uncanny nose for sniff’in out human weakness. Next thing you know out came his jug of spiced cider and a lively tune.
“Well now, what do you folks want to sing about, I think a spider is what I'll be. Imagine all the possibilities…” he trailed off. Most folk would have gotten a little scarred about a lone stranger pretending to be a spider, with all its inferred predatory imagery and alien menace, but these folks had already drank deep of our strong cider, which Thomy had added his own special spices to and as the paralytic, sedative and alcohol weaved their dooming threads through their now addled minds, it was all they could do to stumble about half blind, knowing they should cry out but forgetting how. Before long they were twitching on the shallow snow and out came the twine, ole Thomy singing to himself as he envisioned his new toys and the games he would play with them.
Well the next morning, exhausted from a night of singing, playing and digging a shallow pit in his root cellar, ole Thomy smashed his fiddle screaming at himself. He swore he would never sing a single note again. Of course he knew he was lying. Even at that very moment of ultimate remorse. He would hear the rhythmic swaying of the ice glazed trees, the chirping of the birds, and he knew no matter where he went or what he did the music would find him, because deep down past the barbaric drums and manic chanting, past the mad fiddler who demanded sacrifice, through the frozen ice caves and pits of his psyche, he knew he would always, always, have a song in his heart.