Here's a good summary from my buddy, Chris.
Ten years ago I participated in the 225th anniversary of the Battle of Trenton, and it was only few months after the terrorist attacks on September 11th. There was something like 900 hundred participants. They did a pre-dawn crossing of the river (and another later in the day for the benefit of the public) and then marched 9 miles into Trenton. A handful of women wanted to make the march, and so we followed the army in. We’d missed breakfast, be unlike Washington’s army I wasn’t starving. My feet were cold in my straight-lasted shoes, but at least I had shoes. I had fresh water in my canteen. I was reasonably well rested, having slept on a cot with adequate blankets.
We stepped off in the pre-dawn walking as close as we could to the original route. The hush was broken only by the sound of hobnails on the road, and I didn’t see a single car at that hour. I watched the sky brighten, and as we started passing through more residential areas, I noticed the occasional family standing on their front porch – some waving, some just watching. And some came out and started marching with us. But the part that I’ll never forget was the WWII Veteran standing out in front of his modest home in the biting cold, back-lit by his porch light. He had a 3’ x 5’ American flag on a short pole in one hand, the bottom of it braced against his thigh as he saluted, not us, but what we represented.
And I burst into very quiet tears.
Here's a longer description, including footage from that day 10 years ago. (No, it's not embedding.)