In the deep recesses of my mind, tucked away in a well-protected crevasse is Heartland. Memories of my boyhood reside there. It is a place where a boy’s picturesque view of his world makes time stand still. I do not often go there, but when I do a warm memory always welcomes me. Let’s go there now. A memory of my boyhood is waiting for us.


God put me on this earth to explore every nook and cranny of Corydon, Iowa. I take this charge quite seriously. To understand just how serious, consider the many nooks and assorted crannies that I have explored since arriving here two and a half years ago.

I now know the Wayne County Courthouse from its full-length urinals in the basement to the bells in its cupola. The Corydon State Bank, where the townspeople keep their money, I frequent its safe. Next to the bank is the dairy that processes the milk that farmers draw from their cows in its big vats and pasteurizers. Churches, I have been in all 10 of them, some, dozens of times. Movie Theatre, I know the secret entrance out back. The Times Republican, its editor stocks a candy bowl just for me. And the 600 or so houses that protect their occupants from the elements, and each other, well I reckon that I have been in at least 250 of them, maybe more.

Every day, as I go about exploring Corydon, I pass by the water tower. Most days, as I go by, I gaze at it and wonder what my hometown looks like from up there. What nooks and crannies might I see from there that I have yet to explore?

The water tower is by far Corydon’s tallest structure. From tower’s base to the tip of the lightening rod that adorns its top, the span is 130 feet. Its big cylindrical tank—with City of Corydon painted on its side— holds 750,000 gallons of water. It rests on four steel-beam legs. Each leg angles slightly outward, it foot embedded in cement. On one leg, a ladder leads up to a narrow walkway that encircles the tank.

The tower pulls water from the Wayne County reservoir, seven miles away. Hydrostatic pressure pushes water from the tank to the sinks, toilets, and tubs of the homes and establishments that connect to Corydon’s water main. During the day, as the townspeople do their business, the water level of the tower falls. At night a pump fills it back up so it is ready for another day.

Today is the day that my friend John and I decide to climb the tower. I go first. Left foot on rung, I eagerly grab a crosspiece with my right hand. Up I go. Right foot on a different rung, my left hand on another crosspiece, upwards I climb toward the tank and walkway. What a proud explorer of nooks and crannies am I. The evenly spaced rungs and crosspieces make for steady climbing but the steep angle of the tower’s legs demands much effort. Right foot, left hand, and left foot, right hand upward I climb. My legs, arms, and hands ache with fatigue. I use the little strength that remains to pull myself up onto the walkway. Perched there, I reach down to help John get up here.

John safely by my side, I take a moment to look out at Corydon. I see the United Methodist Church where Dad ministers to his flock, the elementary school that I attend, and the parsonage in which we live. Slowly my eyes scan backwards from the parsonage to the library and finally to ground below. There, sitting at the base of the tower, my dog Major, a 185-pound mastiff, looks like a tiny chihuahua. On the nearby sidewalk, a lady carrying shopping bags looks about the size of an infant.

I feel vulnerable in a way I have never felt before. My heart races wildly, my head spins, and stomach rumbles. I turn white. Fear overtakes me. A gust of wind could blow us off the walkway. Tears flow freely. “God, please God help me get down from here,” reverberates in my head. I wish I had never climbed up here. What was I thinking?

Gasping for air, I whisper to John, “Let’s go.” Sliding over the walkway, heading down, I realize that no one can help us. No one knows we are here.

As my foot touches the first rung, my leg goes rubbery. I pause to collect my thoughts. My hand, on the crosspiece, is sweaty. “What if I lose my grip?” I ask myself. Gripping the crosspiece extra tightly with one hand—while blocking thoughts of slipping from my mind—I wipe my other hand on my pants.

One rung and one crosspiece, I pause to breathe deeply and exhale slowly. Then another rung, another crosspiece, another deep breath, and another slow exhale. Rung by rung, breath by breath I make my way down the water tower. A proud explorer of nooks and crannies no more, I am a disappointment to myself but a conqueror of my fear.

On this trip to Heartland, a memory of a terrifying moment on the water tower greets me. It is a vivid reminder about facing and overcoming fear. How, up on the walkway, when fear set in and I had no choice but to find my way down. To do so, I had to regulate myself. I held on, breathed deeply, silenced my mind, and did what I had to do…rung after rung. As I did, I discovered an inner-strength I never knew I had and an explorer’s pride that I had in abundance.

Going deeper, I now understand that the lesson of the water tower is also about comfort. That new learning only happens outside my comfort zone. How, on the walkway, when I was uncomfortable, I learned a valuable lesson about fear. That, by facing my fear and taking a step, I became stronger and more self-reliant.

Now, I also understand that sometimes I take risks and other times risks find me. In a risky situation I often must take a step, or leap, of faith, sometimes to save, help, or improve myself or, perhaps, someone else. When I do, I find the courage to do the unthinkable.


Note: This is the 20th post in the Heartland Series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.


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