When we moved to Lexington in 1996, I knew that Patriots’ Day, the annual celebration of the Battles of Lexington and Concord, was a big deal. After all, I had been living in the Boston area for 16 years. But, it turns out, I had no idea what a big deal it was in Lexington, the self-styled birthplace of American liberty.

Readers from greater Boston may well be asking: why are you writing on April 4 about Patriots’ Day, which honors a battle that occurred on April 19, 1775 and is always celebrated on a Monday in mid-April? The answer is that for some odd reason, the U.S. Post Office released two stamps commemorating the 150th anniversary of those battles on April 4, 1925.

And looking at those stamps makes me remember that living in Lexington when our daughters were young led to some memorable Patriots’ Days.

In 1997, the first spring that we were here, Patriots’ Day came after a relatively mild night. We had slept with our windows open, which meant that some time before 6 am, I woke to the incessant ringing of the warning bell that kicks off the reenactment of the Battle of Lexington at 6 am.

The next year, I got up very early with my daughter Anna to join the thousands of people who watch the reenactment. And the year after that, both Anna and Becca joined the Brownies, which meant that after we watched the reenactment, they got to march in (and I got to watch) the traditional Sunrise Parade. I learned you have a great sense of accomplishment when before 8 am, you’ve watched a battle reenactment, gone to a parade and brought a bunch of Dunkin Munchkins and hot chocolate to some young girls (as well as big cup of Dunkin coffee for yourself).

But my most memorable Patriot’s Day came several years later in 2003. For reasons, I can’t recall, I had been invited to attend ceremonies held the night before Patriot’s Day at Old North Church, site of the “One if By Land and Two if By Sea” signal. There was to be a reception, a ceremony/service in the church that would include talk by Richard Freeland, then the president of Northeastern University. After that, there would be a reenactment of Paul Revere (and maybe William Dawes) galloping off into the night.

Much to my surprise, my wife and daughters decided this sounded like fun. So off we went. We nibbled food at the reception. We went to the ceremony, which was interesting. We listened to Freeland talk about his vision for great urban universities. And then we headed outside to wait for the horse and rider. While were waiting, Freeland came over and someone (probably Barry Bluestone) introduced us to him.

“What did you think of my talk?” he asked my daughter Becca.

“Usually, when someone starts talking about that kind of stuff, I tune them out and stop listening,” she replied (at least that’s what I remember her saying).

“Oh, God,” I thought.

Then – not for the first time and certainly not for the last – one of my daughters surprised me. “But,” Becca said, “I thought what you said was really interesting.”

Freeland, who clearly was delighted and grinned. He moved on; we stayed and watched someone mount a large horse and ride off. Then we went out for a good Italian dinner followed by gelato and hot chocolate at one of the classic cafes on Hanover Street.

It was getting late but instead of heading home we decided to watch a piece of the reenactment that we’d never seen: Revere (or was it Dawes?) riding up, late at night, to the Hancock-Clarke House in Lexington to warn John Hancock and Samuel Adams that the British were on their way and planned to arrest them. We stood in the dark, with a few dozen other people waiting to hear the sound of the horse.

Because it was April 2003, about a month after the US had invaded Iraq, the past intertwined with the present at that moment. I thought about what it must have felt like to be in Lexington in 1775 and to hear the sound of a horse at 10 at night, knowing that it was someone with important news, likely warning about danger. At the same time, I wondered what it must have been like for people in villages in Iraq – and all of the other places that have been attacked in the last century – to hear the unmistakable sounds of tanks and other mechanized machines of war getting closer and not knowing what they would bring.

My sense of the moment was further heightened by what I knew about people waiting for news in World War I. You see, I had recently read all of L.M. Montgomery’s many books about Anne Shirley out loud to Becca. That series, which starts with the well-known “Anne of Green Gables,” ends with “Rilla of Ingleside.” By this point, Anne is in her early 50s and is a mother; Rilla is her adolescent daughter whose brothers and sweetheart all are off fighting in Europe, which means Anne and Rilla hang on every shred of information, mainly newspapers and letters. It’s an extraordinary view of the war from the perspective of people (mainly women) in a small corner of Prince Edward Island who d – like the people in the Hancock-Clarke House and Iraqi villages – are worried about the larger forces affecting their lives.

All of that was on my mind as well while we waited for the rider to arrive. When he did, the reenactors replayed the scene where Revere (or Dawes? Or both?) finally convinces Hancock and Adams to immediately leave. We went home and went to bed, not waking for the 6 am reenactment or the 7 am parade.

That evening was the last time I attended any of the town’s reenactment activities. And, of course, this year, like last year, the reenactment will again be virtual. But at some point, I’m sure I’ll be reminded of that night in 2003 when I learned something about fear and war and the price of liberty.

Be well, stay safe, fight for justice and work for peace.