The measured clip clop of horse hooves on pavement was not the rhythm history and Longfellow’s poem had led us to expect. Dave and I had been chest-to-barricade for over an hour along with thousands of others awaiting Paul Revere’s warning to Samuel Adams and John Hancock, whose 2025 counterparts had recently retired to bed in the Hancock-Clarke house just down the road.
For some time, a young blond woman in jeans and a tee-shirt had been walking the horse up and down in front of us to “acclimate him to the road and the crowd.” Occasionally, Mr. Revere, 2025, took a spin on the horse himself – not his horse, apparently, and again, “acclimating” before the big ride.
But it was surprising when that moment came, and the acclimated horse and rider rode past the cheering multitudes. This was a re-enactment of the events of 1775, mind you, but still, their pace was relaxed, and Revere’s bearing and announcement rather sedate given the context. Where was the urgency? For, as had happened 250 years ago, a well-armed, highly disciplined brigade of British soldiers was on the march seeking to arrest Adams and Hancock and confiscate whatever weapons they could find.
Soon after Revere trotted by, William Dawes - to whom history has given only muted credit – thundered past, bellowing “The Regulars are out!” The message was the same but delivered with the fervency the situation required. Dawes’s body was pressed to the neck of his horse, his face whipped by the streaming mane of his sweaty mount. This was the scene we were waiting for. And now that it was past, I needed to sit down.
Dave and I had been fighting colds for over a week, but blessedly, felt well enough to go on this trip that had been two years in the planning. Earlier in the day as we cruised the Mass Pike on our way north, Dave spotted a bird soaring overhead.
“Check out that bird! Wait… I think it’s an eagle!”
I craned to follow the bird’s flight path and could see its distinctive white head.
“Omigod! It’s a bald eagle! Surely, a sign!”
A sign, I hoped, that this celebration of the sparks that enflamed the revolutionary fervor of 1775 in America’s fight for independence, equality, and individual rights would shake people from Trump-hypnosis. I also wondered who might show up.
In 2023, we’d made reservations at The Wayside Inn for this weekend, the 250th anniversary of the Battles of Lexington and Concord. Little did we know then how much we’d need a dose of patriotic spirit come 2025. At that time, the turbulence of today’s America and the 2024 election were just a nagging worry.
We knew parking and road closures would be an issue, so we drove straight to Concord’s Visitor Center in search of event schedules and maps. The lot was already closed, so Dave dropped me off and went in search of a spot.
To this day, there’s a rivalry between Lexington and Concord as to which battle triggered the Revolution, and both towns had separate plans for April 19th, the date of the battle on Lexington green and the exchange of shots at the Old North Bridge in Concord a few hours later.
I’d hoped for enthusiastic docents with a copious supply of pamphlets to help us navigate the shuttles and events planned in the two towns, so we could coordinate our attendance at both battles, both parades, and both concerts. Instead, a nice lady handed me a map of Concord’s parade route and pointed out the QR code that would take me to the Concord250 website.
Sigh. QR codes and apps. How they plague me.
Never mind, we’d figure it out. I met up with Dave at our favorite shop, The Nesting, and we set out to explore.
A crowd had gathered at Wright’s Tavern. This, like the many taverns throughout the colonies, was where the Sons of Liberty stirred opposition to Britain, King George, tyranny, and taxes in 1775. Might a protest against authoritarianism be brewing there today?
No. The bustle was over the re-opening of the newly restored 18th century tavern and enthusiastic patronage of the adjacent beer garden. A woman wearing a pleated white mob cap, shawl, long skirt, and green apron greeted us and directed us to the entrance.
In the first room, a docent in britches, stockings, and buckle-toed shoes pointed out the window to the road down the center of town. “The British marched right past the tavern on their way to the Old North Bridge," he said. And on this day in 2025, with democracy in danger and the spirit of 1775 on display, I could envision the scarlet uniforms, the glint of sunlight off bayonets, and sense the thud of a thousand footfalls.
We strolled the tavern, admiring the massive beams, the burnished wood of the fireplace mantel, and the hollow worn into the floorboards behind the bar by the pivot of long-ago barkeeps serving customers and turning to the shelf of beverages behind.
As we departed the tavern on our way to the beer garden, I ran into the friendly woman who’d first welcomed us. With lowered voices, we chatted about the parallels between 1775 and the present, and even in that, in the hush of caution in our conversation, I felt a shiver of connection with the past.
“I heard the Proud Boys applied for a permit to march in the parade, “ she said. “I don’t know how that ended. Or what will happen if they come.” Unsettled as I am about the Constitution under siege, I want something to happen, something to jolt every American to attention. So, in a way, I hoped there’d be drama beyond the re-enactment. Although, as it turned out, I would not be in attendance myself.
Dave had found a table in the beer garden and had already made a friend. We bought drinks and a cup of New England clam chowder and chatted with several locals. Current events were as much a topic as those of 1775, and most people were on the same page.
From a vendor selling souvenirs, we bought a magazine, Discover the Battle Road, with a comprehensive outline of the weekend’s events. The list of road closures was long, so we decided to head to Lexington for dinner and to await Paul Revere. I was dragging, and the thought of waking at 3:30 am in order to nab a good spot for the 5:15 battle re-enactment was rapidly losing appeal.
Cautioned by some policemen that all in-town parking lots would close at 8:00, we parked a mile away at a church listed online as a satellite lot. Dave was starving, so he enjoyed a generous bowl of pasta and a salad while I nibbled at a mushroom pizza at a restaurant in the center of town. Even after dinner, it was only 8:00, and Revere wasn’t due until 10:00. I was tired, but having decided to skip the 5:15 battle, we definitely wanted to see Revere’s ride.
We tapped the address of the Hancock-Clarke house into GPS and started off. The walk felt long, but lovely colonial homes lined the route, and many yards held signs saying, “No Kings! No Tyranny!” and “Muskets Against Musk.” Not so different, the trials of 1775 and 2025.
Once we drew near, Dave opted to stand close to the house but three deep in the crowd. I chose the front line a bit further away. He listened to a learned re-enactor expound on the Declaration of Independence. I chatted with a high school girl and her brother who grew up here in town. At one point, upon receiving a text, the girl looked at me, shook her head, and snorted.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Honestly. My boyfriend. He asked what I was doing, and I said, “waiting for Paul Revere.’ He said, ‘Who’s that’”
“He was kidding, right?”
“No. That’s so him.”
What? All these kids live in Lexington. Surely, the boy was joking?
Throughout the evening, people in colonial dress wandered the line answering questions and talking about the events of April 19, 1775. I asked one gentleman, a re-enactor who would participate in the morning’s battle, if, while in character, he felt nervous about the approach of the British.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Having heard they were coming, you wait. Then you hear them, the sound of their feet on the march. Getting closer.” He placed the fingers and thumb of one hand to his sternum. “I feel it. The nerves. Right here. And then they come into view. Hundreds of them. The officers on horseback. The bayonets. What would it have been like for the Colonials? Farmers mostly who’d been doing drills on the green? Yes. I feel the fear. I feel their fear.”
Once Revere and Dawes completed their mission, and Adams and Hancock had fled, I had to sit down. I had to find Dave and sit down. I scanned the crowd hoping to spot his Einstein mop of hair, but it was dark, I was tired and starting to feel teary. Briefly, I sat under a tree, but thought I’d get trampled as people headed home. Fortunately, Dave and I soon found each other and trudged the mile back to the car.
Once at the hotel and in bed, Dave fell asleep, and I coughed all night. 3:30 and 5:15 passed, and still I coughed. Lord, I was happy not to be at the green watching the Minutemen fall. I was feverish and too sick to go home despite Dave’s care, cool cloths, Tussin DM, and soup warmed in the hotel microwave. Battles, parades, and concerts preceded as planned without us, and I didn't care.
On Easter Sunday, Dave helped me to the car, and we drove to Fairfield, straight to Urgent Care and an X-Ray. I was relieved when the doctor ruled out Covid and any guilt over being a super-spreader, but double pneumonia? That was a surprise.
Blame Paul Revere.
