Summer has turned the dazzling carpets of dandelions into a lush display of all imaginable shades of green, dappled with white and sprinkled with the yellow of buttercups. Summer is a time with few obligations, and wonderfully lacking deadlines. Therefore, this blog has been gathering virtual dust, as an unintended effect of spending more time outside. Coincidentally, I remembered it existed today. Today was a rainy day, a day to spend inside with a good book. On sunny days- which there haven’t been many of lately because of the rain, but on sunny days, it’s easy here, to see the traces of an old Sackville. A Sackville of centuries past, centuries that have made this little university town what it is today. It is easy to look across the marshes and imagine the first Acadian settlers (amongst which the Chiassons!), working relentlessly against the tides, building dykes that would later hold back the Tantramar River and make these lands amongst the most fertile in North America. It is easy to skip a century or two, and picture the sails of great ships, visible from a distance coming in to a port that no longer exists since the river changed its course. The train tracks still run by the site. It is easy, on High Marsh Road, former highway to Halifax, to hear the echo of hoof beats and the creaking of wagon wheels, heading to Middle Sackville, most likely stopping at the Campbell Carriage Factory on the way. This is where I am working this summer. It’s an amazing place that pays tribute to a type of craftsmanship and dedication that is rarely found today. Working as a museum tour guide for what is now my third consecutive year has certainly rubbed off on me. It seems as if I see History everywhere now. I often wonder, how was it really, back then? What did people do? Did the marshes look the same? Did they look across the vast expanse of grasslands and listen to the wind whistling through the vegetation? Did they laugh at the hacking screech of the pheasants, and admire the elegant flight of the Northern Harrier? Did they roll their eyes as the fog came rolling in, once again? Did they, too run across the fields, to feel the wind on their faces and the grass beneath their feet?