Yesterday I took the boys to a Revolutionary War battle reenactment in our neighborhood. The Battle of Germantown took place in 1777 about ten blocks from where we now live. One of my history buff neighbors has a map showing that the colonial army marched down the street at the end of our block, tuned right at near our corner and walked through the neighborhood. Amazing.

At the end of the war, people who were there described it as some of the worst carnage of the entire conflict. Hundreds of people died and hundreds more were seriously injured. Many of the old churches in our neighborhood have mass graves of unidentified soldiers in their cemeteries.

The battle was a major defeat for General Washington’s army. Washington himself was not there. It is, however, considered a turning point in the war because the colonial army put up a big fight—much better than anyone anticipated.  Apparently, these rebel farmers were scrappy.

At the height of the battle British soldiers filled a local house—the same house in the photographs here—and were destroyed by musket and cannon fire. It was the close proximity of this fight that made it so horrendous.

The reenactors perform the spectacle every year and have for decades. Our veteren neighbors had warned us that it was loud and scary (and it was) and so we’ve never taken the boys over.  This year was finally the year.

There is no doubt that one of the joys of living in Philadelphia are the encounters we have with the courageous people and the amazing ideas that made this country possible. It’s all around us, all the time, everyday.

Thank you to these reenactors who put so much work and energy into making history real. For some in the audience, it was nothing more than a stunt with some loud noise. But for most, I believe, it was much much more. It certainly was for the Kelsh family.

I will share these photos with the organization that puts this reenactment together. As I have often said, everyone you know wants and needs pictures. It’s just one way to give back.

And it goes without saying that every time I saw a young  drummer boy or flag bearer among the reenactors I couldn’t help but feel the pain and inadequately imagine the lifelong trauma of having gone into battle and watched men they knew die—boys not much older than Teddy and Alexander.

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