It loomed ahead like some misplaced monument, a column seemingly plucked from ancient Rome and planted on the streets of St. Louis by a confused architect with a flair for the dramatic. At first glance, I thought it was a relic—a forgotten memorial or some bygone tribute to civic pride. But no, this stately tower was a functional piece of infrastructure, a water tower of all things. Of course, St. Louis doesn’t do water towers like the rest of us. No squat, utilitarian cylinder for them—this one rises 154 feet into the sky, fluted and ornate like a Corinthian column too proud to admit its humble purpose.
Built in 1871, the Grand Avenue Water Tower once stabilized water pressure for the city’s growing population. Now it stands retired, a decorative reminder that even plumbing can aspire to grandeur. Apparently, it’s one of only seven remaining standpipe towers in the United States, a fact that felt appropriately obscure yet oddly significant as I stared up at it.
I wondered about the people who lived beneath its shadow. Do they pass by it every day without a second thought, or does it still command some small moment of awe, like a lighthouse for an inland city? If I lived here, I’d invent wild stories about it—perhaps it’s the home of a forgotten wizard, or maybe it’s a portal to a subterranean realm ruled by water sprites. Anything feels possible when a piece of the skyline belongs in both a history book and a fairy tale.
St. Louis has a knack for blending the eccentric with the elegant. The Grand Avenue Water Tower is no exception—a monument to both the practicality of water pressure and the whimsy of whoever dared to build it with such impossible style.