This replica was one of approximately 200 commissioned in the early 1950s by the Boy Scouts of America as part of a campaign called “Strengthen the Arm of Liberty.” At the time, America was gripped by Cold War anxiety, and patriotism took many forms—some loud, some quiet. These replicas were the latter: small bronze sentinels placed in parks, near schools, beside courthouses. Symbols that said: Liberty lives here, too.
In Des Moines, she stands on a limestone pedestal, her torch lifted high, her gaze fixed not on incoming ships or crashing waves, but on the capitol dome—a golden beacon in its own right. It's a striking juxtaposition: the torch of liberty mirrored by the dome of governance, one a promise, the other the attempt to fulfill it.
I hadn’t expected to find her here. I was circling the grounds of the capitol, locked out on a Sunday, when I spotted the familiar silhouette—a little out of place, but not unwelcome. That’s the thing about Lady Liberty: she doesn’t need to be grand to be powerful. Even in miniature, she reminds you of the ideals we keep chasing—freedom, equality, justice—however unevenly we pursue them.
She bears the same markings as her towering sister in New York: the broken chains at her feet, the tablet in her left hand etched with JULY IV MDCCLXXVI. But there’s something deeply Iowan about this version. She stands not on an island, but in a public park, ringed by benches and war memorials. She belongs to the people—not as a symbol of arrival, but of presence. A reminder that liberty is not just the domain of ports and coasts, but of cornfields and capitol domes, too.