My dear friends of Orkney. There was a writer here in Canada, both famous and infamous, who when confronted with proofs contrary to what his stories imagined, maintained that truth not necessarily lays with mere fact.
    Father at one time could be cajoled into attendance at the village’s Presbyterian church, typically in the early spring when the crested red birds were calling. He was of a reticent nature yet was well liked. His boyhood friends called him Rusty. He was a solid first basemen on the field, tall with a slight bowlegged stance.
    In the barn, he’d sing a single, broken line from a familiar Autry tune, “I’ve got spurs that jingle, jangle” never progressing to part about the ties that bind.
    We’d sit there, five of us lined along the bench in our Sunday best. Father would be scrubbed and shaven, in suit and tie, the scent of the morning milking covered with a splash of Aqua Velva.
    I’d watch him. His chin would gently sink, eyes close, yet well before the dream and full sonorous volume of his inner and outer voice could merge, a sharp jab would bring him back.
    It was father’s way.
    Now, before we go much further, you should know there is an Orkney connection.
    That sharp jab was delivered by the daughter of the grandson of the man who built the church – James Isbister.
    James arrived in Canada from Mainland, Orkney in 1860 at the age of 18 with five siblings, their father, William, having sold a large field to facilitate the voyage at a time when sheep and cattle were the preferred occupants of the islands. The new land was not entirely an unknown quantity for the family, Orcadians, and Isbisters for that matter, having crossed the North Atlantic many times in previous centuries to support the fur trade.
    The fact of the matter being, my dears, is that Orkney now lies as much beyond its wave-lashed shores as within, Orcadians having become indigenous in their new environment, their bloodlines long having mingled with those of the first inhabitants.
    James, though, was a relative newcomer. He made his way first to Peterborough and then to Oxford County, having assessed the area’s potential during an extended walking tour.
    He found stone in that place, stone and soils so deep as to make an Orkneyman weep. The combination suited the young mason. Stone to build with; soils supporting a thriving rural community to pay for the building.
    James oversaw the church’s construction, assembling first the high stone foundation, its buttressed brick walls then rising. He built large stone homes, too; one within sight of the Canada’s Thames, a mere rivulet there, meandering along the village edge, the names of his children still etched on a broad wooden sill.
    Magnus Isbister recalled, James would think in later years considering his grandfather's legacy back in Orkney, “greatness” recalled.        Such is the way of families, fortunes ebb and flow.
    Clifton was too young to have engaged in the Great War, and was far too short; a little man with charm, brash good looks, daring and, having learned the fundamentals of electric wiring and the internal combustion engine, prospects.
    Estelle was taken. While Cliff’s grandfather may have built the church, hers had paid for it, or at least a significant part. There was even a golden watch given as a testament to his faith and service, now in the hands of her younger brother.
    They were young and alive; times had taken a turn for prosperity and Cliff’s indifference to societal norms – he carried small silver flask with him always – had a certain attraction. She’d bounce about the countryside at his whim aboard Leapin’ Lizzie, the cares of the world dust behind them, the future ahead.
    To be continued...