Finding My Ithaca

My hometown of Mason City, Iowa, has several claims to fame. It’s the birthplace of The Music Man composer Meredith Willson and

the inspiration for the musical, site of the only remaining Frank Lloyd Wright–designed hotel, and houses the largest collection of puppets by Bil Baird—the artist who helped inspire Jim Henson. Among them are the original goat-herd puppets from the beloved movie The Sound of Music.

 

I talk about Mason City a lot because I’m proud of where I come from. But pride took a long time to grow. There’s a joke among Colorado transplants: “Iowa is a great place to be from.” For a long while, this carried a note of relief for me—like I had escaped. I once saw my hometown as something small, something to move beyond.

 

But the older I get, the more I’ve come to appreciate the history, rhythm, and quiet beauty of the place that raised me. I’ve learned to love “Iowa nice.” I’ve come to treasure how the cornfields turn gold in the fall and how the brutal winters—those endless, gray months—make the green of spring extra beautiful. 

 

When someone tells me, “The Music Man is my favorite musical,” I can’t help but smile and say, “Really? That’s where I’m from.” When I see a Frank Lloyd Wright building, I feel a little surge of pride one of his designs stands right on State St., in Mason City. These small moments remind me my hometown is woven into more than my memories—it’s part of who I am.

 

This recognition of “home” has been on my mind a lot this year as we’ve been reading The Odyssey together as a faculty. Odysseus’ long and winding journey feels familiar, even if most of us aren’t dodging Cyclopes or sirens. His longing for Ithaca—the home he left behind—is something we all carry in some form. It’s the quiet pull of belonging, the ache to return to what is familiar after being tested by the wider world.

 

In many ways, The Odyssey is not just about returning home, but rediscovering what “home” means. The journey transforms Odysseus. And that transformation is something we all undergo in our own lives.

 

Our roots—geographic, familial, educational—anchor us. They give us a starting point for the journey. Our family, teachers, mentors, and even the books we read shape how we see the world. Sometimes it takes years, or even decades, before we can look back with enough perspective to understand how deeply those influences have marked us—and how important the quality of those roots truly is.

 

This is something I find myself hoping for Liberty students—that, one day, perhaps long after they’ve left classrooms and schedules behind, they will come to recognize the value of the place that formed them.  The hours spent reading great books, wrestling with ideas, learning discipline, wonder, and responsibility will quietly become part of who they are. 

 

I hope Liberty becomes part of their roots. Not as something to move beyond, but as something they carry with them—filled with beauty, truth, and goodness—until one day they look back and realize how much it gave them, that it, too, was an Ithaca of sorts.

 

I don’t have a desire to live in Iowa now. Mason City is still miserably cold in the winter and even more miserably humid in the summer. It still smells like farm animals most of the year.  But now, I see its beauty. It’s my Ithaca—ordinary, imperfect, and deeply mine.