Rather, by blocking the door to the recruiting station, they'd get arrested. And getting arrested would beget media attention—who, after all, can resist the story of police locking up elderly women for protesting the war?—which would go a long way toward jump-starting a seemingly stagnant anti-war movement.

True to form, the NYC women became a cause celebre. By the time they beat the rap six months later, they'd inspired local grandmothers Zandra Moberg, Nina Huizinga and Marlene Santoyo to want to ride the groundswell at a time when few young'uns were carrying the anti-war mantle. Thus, the Philadelphia Grandmothers for Peace were born [Philly Blunt, "Grannies Gone Wild," Brian Hickey, June 8, 2006].

It took little time for them to find their opportunity. Since the New York grannies would be coming through town on their way to spend the Fourth of July protesting in Washington, D.C., they decided they'd let the guests watch some dames follow in their cane-assisted footsteps and wheelchair tracks.

So, on a day when 11 insurgent Sunni groups offered to stop attacking U.S. forces if America agreed to pull out of Iraq within two years, 11 grandmothers from Philadelphia met at the Friends Center and led a cavalcade of anti-warriors to the local recruiting office.

The day would prove, if nothing else, to be entertaining.

It all starts at 11:30 a.m. with a bullhorn cry of, "We're on a trek. A trek for peace. We're pleading now to end this war." Through the scorching heat, protesters like Marie Runyon, a legally blind 91-year-old carrying two walking sticks, march down 15th Street, across Arch and up Broad with protest on their minds. Waiting for the formation of chanting grannies to pass, one elderly woman from New York, sporting a yellow "Granny Peace Brigade" pin, gripped her walker and declares, "This is so awesome. I'm so proud to be a part of it."

Minutes later, local founder Moberg is waltzing into the Army office at the recruiting station, where she is met by Sgt. First Class Bell, who, sporting desert-style camos, gets handed an apple pie. "Take it. It might be good," says Moberg. "We're here to enlist." Bell, a strictly business military woman, looks past Moberg, a quick-to-smile, rail-thin grandmother of two sporting a wide-brimmed purple hat. Outside, she sees dozens of protesters congregated on the sidewalk, passing out anti-war pamphlets and singing "God Bless America."

This, she must be thinking, is going to be an interesting day.

Meanwhile, the grannies—one of whom, wheelchair-bound Lillian Willoughby, 91, had already done some jail time for protesting the Iraq war outside the Philadelphia federal building—notice one of Bell's peers talking to a potential recruit.

"Take us," one granny yells from the pack, "not them."

Bell, getting less amused when she realizes someone has replaced recruitment brochures with pictures of flag-draped coffins, explains that they just can't walk in and sign up in five minutes. Besides, she notes, they're all above the 42-year age limit to enlist.

"We'd like to start that process now, anyway," declares one of the grannies.

It is there that Smith finds them and tries to determine just what exactly they are doing.

"What," he asks, "are your general plans?"

"To stop the war," responds Santoyo, a headstrong Mt. Airy resident sporting large, turtle-esque eyeglasses. "And to enlist."

Smith then retreats to the adjacent Army office to formulate an attack plan with the military. They need to act quickly, too, considering that tensions seem to be rising.

At one point, Smith grabs a granny by her arm and hauls her out of the Army office she'd sneaked into, an act of aggression he quickly apologizes for. Soon thereafter, a protester tells a uniformed Army recruiter that a 93-year-old woman needs to use a bathroom. Desperately. The soldier tells them there's one next door. "You mean to tell me there isn't a bathroom in here?" a protester asks.

"There is one," says the soldier, "but you can't use it."

In the Marine office, where the ladies sit peacefully on couches, plastic chairs and on a desk, a Q&A ensues.

"We're staying here until we can enlist," says Santoyo, playing the role of negotiator in a room filled with grandmothers both dreadlocked and white-haired.

"The good sergeant told you that's not possible," responds Smith, referring to the ranking officer of the Army recruiting station, Sgt. Daniel Gager, who, just three days away from finishing his stint of active duty, has since arrived.

"What will we be charged with?"

"Defiant trespass. It's usually a summary offense. You'll probably be taken down and fingerprinted but it might be a while before you see a judge."

"Will we be held overnight?"

"Not likely."

Smith gives the ladies a moment to privately discuss their options; Santoyo recaps everything, additionally noting that if they're handcuffed, their restraints will only be plastic.

Their resolve strengthens.

"We have a consensus," she announces. "We're staying. We want to get arrested. Are we going to walk out, or get carried?"

One of the grannies jokingly asks whether they can be transported to jail in a stretch limo. The group starts singing "We Shall Overcome" and vows to voice anti-war statements when they're led out of the building.

"Anybody here who needs to go to the bathroom better do it now," says Smith, who's made sure the facilities have been made available to the occupying forces, "because the bathroom in the place you're going is the pits."

"My soldiers in there, they work 80 hours a week, six days a week. They hardly ever see their families and what's happening here today only takes them away from their families that much more," he says, fishing for sympathy that won't be found.

"We're sorry we're making them work more," says Metzler, the granny whose arm isn't hurting anymore.

As a group, the women decide they feel bad, yes, but they cannot apologize for what they've done. War is serious. And so is trying to bring one to an end.

"I'm not here to debate the legality of the war," Gager says. "Can I appeal to you one more time to just leave?"

The answer is no. But that's not what gets Gager riled up. What does that is one woman's comment that American soldiers set out to kill innocent civilians.

"Ma'am," Gager says, his voice rising, "no soldier intentionally kills women and children, and I'm offended you said that."

"We want to make less work for you, not more," one says as he's leaving.

Adds Metzler, "We want to put you out of business."

By 2:45 p.m., reality is setting in. The women have resolved to go to jail, so two female police officers are taking the grannies' information down. "Unfortunately," announces Smith, "from here on out, it's not going to be a pleasant experience for you. You're about to go from having a friendly chat to getting arrested."

After it's announced that the women won't be cuffed, everybody who doesn't intend to go to jail is asked to leave. Outside, the protesters burn time posing for pictures and urging cars to honk. The weight of their situation can be seen in one of their protest signs, the one that kept a tally of U.S. soldiers killed in Iraq has risen from 2,525 to 2,526.

"Troops home now," the women start yelling as the police transport vans arrive. "We stand with our sisters."

At 4:30 p.m., the side doors to the recruiting station spring open and the supporters start chanting, clapping and waving their signs. One by one, 11 grannies are escorted out of the building. Since they're not cuffed, they hyperactively wave their frail arms, throwing peace signs up in the air. The police are careful to gingerly load them into the backs of the vans, what with all the cameras recording their every move. Those in custody are beaming as they applaud their supporters. Their fans can't help but cheer back. Though none of them sings "We Shall Overcome" as planned, they're as happy as someone in custody can be. They smile and pose for pictures in the back of the police vans.

Charged with defiant trespass, an offense on par with jaywalking, they're hauled off to the 16th District station at 39th Street and Lancaster Avenue for processing. (Special dispensation is given to Willoughby, who, since she gets around in a wheelchair, is driven in the back of an unmarked vehicle along with Moberg, who, when asked how she feels as she gets into the cop car, can do nothing but grin.)

The inside, however, has probably never seen a scene like this. The 11 grannies sit on plastic chairs in a cavernous front room. At a picnic-style table, a few officers run through the jailbirds' information. Behind a bullet-proof window, clerks type up their arrest records.

Chatting amongst themselves, the women look as if they could be waiting for the next game of Bingo to start as their supporters start showing up at the precinct.

One of the New York grannies, talking about how they'll be on to Washington by way of Wilmington at 9 a.m. the next day. She says a point of conversation on their bus ride here was what would happen if one of the grannies died while on the trip: "We all decided that it was OK, since they died doing what they wanted to do."

The process takes all of an hour and the first arrestee to be released is Sue Ellen Klein, a 65-year-old from Center City, at 6:18 p.m. She's greeted by raucous applause.

"They were very gentle," she says of the police officers, "but they told us if we did it again, it'd be more serious."

One by one, the others stroll out. When they leave the processing room, they walk down a flight of steps and out the front door, posing for the obligatory photograph in front of the 16th Police District sign.

Nina Huizinga, an ever-smiling 66-year-old Quaker sporting a flowing, hippie-esque white dress and pink button-up shirt, has lost her sun bonnet. Her curly white hair spirals out in every direction as she pumps her fist in the air proclaiming victory.

She and a fellow jailbird do some Rockette kicks on the front steps. "I'm sooo happy," she says. "This was really a blast."

When the women start comparing their release papers—the ones that have them scheduled for a court appearance at 8:30 a.m. the next morning—they realize whoever processed them must have been colorblind.

Black protesters, like the dreadlocked poet Sonia Sanchez, are listed as Caucasian while whites are listed as black or Asian/Pacific Islander. The laughter doesn't subside for about 10 minutes and the women agree not to tell the police of their mistake as it may come into play when they have to go before the judge.

The last of the Philly grannies is released some seven hours after they seized the recruiting office, and even though there's little fanfare, they act as if they've accomplished a great thing here today. They hope people will hear about what the Philly grannies have done and they'll be driven to rally against the war themselves. Moberg says they've made an important point, put a dent in the war machine.

Plans are made to reunite the groups at some point in the near future before the New York grannies stroll down Lancaster toward a Thai restaurant they'd heard great things about. Santoyo, the lead negotiator, heads for home instead. There's still important work to be done.

On the ride to Mt. Airy, she talks strategy with their attorney David Rudovsky. With so little time until court, the women must decide whether to plead no contest or guilty and do community service, or pay a fine, or plead not guilty and take it to trial.

Urged on by a New York granny who's sharing a ride home, Santoyo agrees that pleading not guilty is the way to go. "We want people to hear what we have to say about the war," she says. "Going to trial is how we do it."

The next morning, they'll plead not guilty to the charges and receive a Dec. 1 court date. But for now, there are more pressing things to tend to. As the car winds up Ridge Avenue, she espies a custard stand and asks if the driver would be kind enough to pull over.

For now, the war can wait.

After the day she's had, nothing would hit the spot more than a small orange and vanilla twist in a cup.