John Mertz had always been the guy who fixed things. He worked for thirty-seven years as a utility lineman across eastern Iowa, the kind of job that required grit, muscle, and no fear of heights. After retiring, he bought a small acreage outside of Monticello and spent his days tinkering in the barn, cutting firewood, and helping neighbors when they needed an extra set of hands.
At 72, John still looked strong. He’d never been one to sit still, and folks in town often joked that he didn’t know what retirement meant. But time has a way of catching up. Quietly at first, then all at once.
One morning in early November, John noticed a limb had come down in last night’s windstorm and taken out the overhead power line that fed his well pump. It wasn’t a high-voltage line, just the kind that ran from the pole to the house, but still, it needed fixing.
He stared at the old utility pole for a long time. He still had his climbing gear from years ago. And part of him, that old stubborn part, whispered, “You’ve done this a thousand times.”
So he strapped on the gaffs and started climbing.
Halfway up, his left knee buckled. He caught himself, heart pounding. His vision blurred just long enough to scare him. He clung there, ten feet off the ground, breathing hard.
Then he did something he hadn’t done in years.
He climbed down.
Later that afternoon, he called Lucas, a 30-something from church who worked for the electric co-op, and asked if he could come by.
When Lucas showed up, John handed him the gear bag. “I think it’s time this found a new home,” he said. “I’m not that guy anymore.”
Lucas fixed the line, and they shared a cup of coffee afterward. John didn’t feel ashamed—just settled like a weight had been lifted.
From that day on, he made a quiet rule: he’d still help when he could, but ladders over six feet and climbing poles were off the list.
And for the first time in his life, John felt like he’d actually grown wiser—not weaker.