The eve of the fifth anniversary of the Iraq Occupation, Phinney Neighbors for Peace and Justice were at their usual spot on the northernmost Aurora Overpass, displaying a huge banner reading "4,000 Too Many."

"Bannering" is always a moving and heartening experience, with motorists flashing their lights, honking their horns and waving the peace sign in solidarity. But the March 18, 2008 edition, photographed by the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, was particularly momentous. Over five years, the small band of protesters has missed only half a dozen dates, including two when Christmas and New Year's Day fell this past calendar turn for the first time on a Tuesday.

When they began near the end of 2002, war had not even started. But the group sensed its imminency.

"Our motivation was just wanting to do something," recalls Neil Planert, a furniture maker and woodworker. "I always think it's a lot of little things that effect change, not just one big thing."

Back then, their intent seemed hopelessly out of step with the mood of a nation still roiled by the events of September 11 a year earlier. But even though "United We Stand" was the prevailing national mandate, even though George Bush had yet to invoke African yellowcake (eventually proven bogus) in his State of the Union address, even though Colin Powell had not yet appeared before the United Nations with his "proof" of weapons of mass destruction, the Phinney Ridge contingent sensed mounting Bush Administration deception and saber-rattling over Iraq.

A couple of members of the group had experience with political "bannering" over Aurora Avenue, a heavily traveled corridor linking downtown Seattle with points north and the suburbs. At Seattle's legacy Woodland Park, concrete bridges pass over the six-lane thoroughfare. The overpasses are a favorite vantage point for election-day and other message-based campaigning.

"No Iraq War" read the first banner, summing up the group's aim about as succinctly and directly as could be. The early slogan gave way to more complex expressions that today seem downright prophetic. "False Advertising? "Cakewalk" "Liberation" read one. Another: "The World Sees Through It: Can We?" And "Why Do His Reasons for War Keep Shifting?" One popular early banner was especially portentous: "Iraquagmire" displayed in crossword-puzzle fashion playing off the "q."

Today the tiny band finds itself belatedly aligned with the vast majority. Bannerists, mostly Boomers with long histories in opposing war and promoting human rights, smile at the irony but are quick to note they derive little comfort in numbers, as long as the insanity continues. They may belong, as New York Times columnist Paul Krugman put it, on an ideological Honor Roll for questioning the Iraq conflict early and often. But they shun any offers of premature congratulations.

"The peace movement seems better organized than ever," said Cobra (her only name, which she had legally changed), a student activist in Seattle's Franklin High School during the 1960s who today runs her own housecleaning business. "But it seems to have taken longer to get the general population concerned."

Implementation of a military draft might change things in a hurry, Cobra noted. In the Vietnam era her brother, who "had never been politically concerned" before reaching draft age, had a standing plan to escape to Canada if his number came up (the draft lottery exempted him).

"We feel a little frustrated, like what took everyone so long," said Patty Bicknell, who joined bannering because of her teenage son: "I want to do everything I can to ensure he's not going to have to go to another country and fight an insane war."

An outgrowth of an organizational meeting at Seattle's Garfield High School for SNOW (Sound Nonviolent Opponents of War), the Phinney bannerists began on the Friday before Christmas, 2002. They soon decided they'd be more effective during morning rush hour, 7:30 to 9 a.m., each Tuesday. Downtown-bound commuters stack Aurora's southbound lanes, a captive audience for the large-lettered script of the day.

The early reception was decidedly mixed, recalls Planert, a graying long-haired self-described "old-hippie." Angry catcalls, obscene gestures and other displays of disagreement were common fare.

"I was kind of glad there wasn't any easy path from the roadway up to the overpass," Planert said with a grin.

Banners that directly attacked George Bush got the most response. "Positive and negative both," Planert said. "They really touched a nerve."

Recently a motorist yelled out, "Jump!" "We got a chuckle out of that one," Planert said.

Over time, a growing and encouraging number of motorists honked or flashed their lights in agreement. What Planert recalls most were the grateful expressions of sympathizers who seemed to say, "What a relief to know others are out there who feel the way I do."

The mounting support helped Planert drag himself out to the overpass on the darkest, coldest and wettest mornings, even when he was on crutches from knee surgery. Others, like John Bito, a downtown computer systems architect, banner for an hour before departing for work each Tuesday. Mark Niehaus, a software programmer, gave up weekend hiking for Saturday-morning prep sessions to make sure the banners got up every week. The oldest bannerist, John Peterson, 91, was a mainstay from the beginning till moving into a senior care facility. Still, the number of regulars has diminished over the years: The group started with banners on three overpasses, then went to two and are now down to one.

The diehards credit the support of their sponsoring group for helping keep the faith. Phinney Neighbors for Peace and Justice also conducts "tabling" — a Wednesday afternoon display with peace materials in front of a grocery market on the ridge —as well as monthly potlucks and a popular spring and fall forum series.

Relieved that public opinion has swung, the bannerists nonetheless feel their work is far from done. Americans and Iraqis continue to die as a Nero–like lame duck George Bush fiddles — perhaps not on a violin, but in near-pointless talks with advisors and with blithe holiday forays to his Texas ranch. If ever actions were impeachable, bannerists say, the time is now as lives are being lost while a President and vice president with a clear public mandate refuse to do their job.

So the bannering goes on. The fifth anniversary drew nearly a dozen regulars and supporters, the best turnout in recent memory.

Occasionally a middle finger or shouted epithet interrupted the proceedings, but response was overwhelmingly positive. Horns beeped and peace signs flashed almost continuously, with even truckers and service vans pulling on the big honkers to acknowledge the bannerists.

The 4.5-by-13.5-foot banner is an ingenious assemblage: Plastic plumbing conduit for the bracing, school-grade butcher paper backed by Tyvek for heft and resiliency, even in high winds, and strapping tape holding the banner to the piping.

"The technology for bannering has evolved considerably from the early days," jokes Bito.

Tom Larsen, an architecture student and artist, does the lettering using mis-mixed house paint bought on the cheap from places like Home Depot.

Seattle police have generally left the bannerists alone. Early on an officer told the group it was not allowed to "affix" the banner to the overpass railing, but "we interpreted that to mean don't tie it off and leave it,'" said Bito. The group secures the banner with clothesline cord to keep it stable in all conditions. And two or three bannerists keep hold of the banner at all times.

Although several vehicular accidents have happened during bannering, the group has never been implicated in any by police, or told to take down the signs. Sloganeers try to keep the message simple, Planert said, so it can be quickly read and not distract drivers.

Planert has kept a file of the several hundred messages over the years. In all that time, the group has missed bannering only in major snowstorms (previous to the recent holiday conflict). The most recent happened in a November 2006 ice-snow siege that basically shut down the city.

"I was lobbying to go anyway," said Niehaus. But there was no easy way to get the banner gear to Aurora — Planert lives atop the ridge and normally transports the equipment by car. And traffic on Aurora was predictably light that day, "so it wasn't like we missed our big chance," Planert said.

After the winter of 2007's particularly destructive windstorm, the group was forced to move to a different overpass from its preferred location, which police had yellow-taped due to a huge fallen tree. Otherwise they've been like clockwork: Over the years around 25 regulars have come and gone, with a core group of half a dozen present on any given Tuesday. At least three or four show up even when the diehard regulars are traveling, ill or have other commitments.

Anyone seeking inspiration from Margaret Mead's oft-quoted observation about a small citizen group's power to change society need look no further than Phinney Ridge's hardy band of bannerists. Asked whether the years of standing on hard cement, through wind and freezing and rain, have been worth it, bannerist Pam Shea, a biotech lab technician, says: "Our kids are always saying, 'Why do you waste your time? It didn’t stop the war.' And it didn’t. But we tell them you have to do the right thing. And one can never tell the impact one will have."

Today, with even presidential candidates speaking of ending the war, their attitude is business as usual until the last U.S. soldier is withdrawn and the last innocent civilian is killed by American artillery. The day after New Year's 2007, the banner read, "3000 Too Many." A plaintive depiction of an American flag accompanied the message. The 4,000th to die is expected in coming days.

"We just want the bloodshed to stop," says Planert. In the event the war does end, he's not sure if bannering will continue. It may depend on what other little things with big potential for ushering change beckon the Phinney contingent.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer article quoting bannerists. The P-I photo was not posted on the Web.