It was quite a few years ago, I think about the time we were heading into the first Gulf War. Child of the sixties that I am, I was questioning whether it was ever worth going to war. This was, of course, pre 9/11. So I had pretty much resolved that there was redeeming value to conflict, or some other great intellectualization, when I happened to go to Philadelphia.
My husband and I went to a trade show. Now these were usually held in Atlantic City, but this one happened to be near Philly. Taking advantage of the opportunity, we did a bit of sightseeing, including the carriage ride tour. Our driver was entertaining and knowledgeable. He took us to Ben Franklin's home, pointed out the reflecting mirror our randy forbear used to see if the coast was clear. Then he took us to a park, a revolutionary era grave site. As we got out of the carriage and crossed the lawn, we headed to a pergola of sorts, nothing much, just some railing with an arbor over it. Upon reaching it, I noticed a plaque which read "the men buried beneath your feet died for your freedom." Enough said.