Howdy folks — Glenn Blamstead here, reporting from Mora, where the coffee is strong, the mud is seasonal, and I’ve been building pole barns for nearly fifty years but still occasionally look around a job site like I’m filling in for the real contractor.
I have an inferiority complex.
Not an impressive one. Not a polished, high-achieving inferiority complex with a five-year plan and a color-coded spreadsheet. This one shows up late, doesn’t take notes, and mostly just mutters things at me while I’m trying to function like a grown man who has, in fact, done this for decades.
It prefers mornings.
About eight minutes after I arrive on site — right when I’ve set my coffee down somewhere I won’t remember — it leans in and says:
“Is that post straight?”
“Did you actually check that measurement or did you emotionally check it?”
“Are you sure you understand snow?”
That last one hurts a little. I live in Minnesota. Understanding snow is not optional.
After forty-eight years in pole barn construction, you’d think I’d have reached some kind of inner peace. Some calm sense of earned authority. A quiet confidence that comes from repetition and survival.
I have not.
When Confidence Was Easier
When I was twenty-five, I’d finish a machine shed, step back, and think:
“Well, look at that. It’s upright. I appear to be a professional.”
And I meant it. I genuinely believed upright was a strong indicator of success.
At twenty-five, if the doors opened and closed and the roof appeared to be attached in a permanent way, I slept like a baby. A very confident baby.
Now I finish a building and immediately start thinking:
Did I account for wind exposure properly?
Is that embedment depth perfect for this soil type?
Did I double-check the fastener pattern on the steel?
Will future Glenn get a call in February because ice decided to experiment?
The strange thing about experience is that it doesn’t make you feel smarter. It just gives you a longer list of possible disasters.
Young Glenn was blissfully unaware of most structural concerns. He believed in optimism and gravity in roughly equal measure.
Current Glenn is aware of all of them simultaneously, like a group text that will not mute no matter how many times you try.
This is called expertise. It feels like mild, continuous suspicion.
The Problem With Knowing Things
The more years you spend building, the more you realize how many variables there are.
Soil changes. One site is sandy and cooperative. The next one is clay that holds grudges.
Weather changes. You can plan around averages, but averages are suggestions. Minnesota specializes in weather that ignores suggestions.
Materials change. Lumber isn’t exactly what it was twenty years ago. Steel profiles evolve. Fasteners improve. Codes adjust. Everything moves.
Customers change their mind halfway through a sentence.
“I was thinking maybe—”
And suddenly the door is on a different wall.
And snow — snow does whatever it wants.
You start out thinking you’re building structures. Eventually, you realize you’re negotiating with physics.
Wind has opinions.
Moisture has ambitions.
Freeze-thaw cycles have hobbies.
Gravity has never once taken a day off.
Neither has my brain.
The 2:14 A.M. Conference
The inferiority complex does its best work at 2:14 in the morning.
Not 2:10. Not 2:30. Specifically 2:14.
That’s when it gently nudges me awake and says:
“Are you absolutely sure about that roof load?”
“What if the door header is off by an eighth?”
“What if you’ve misunderstood trusses your entire adult life?”
At 2:14 a.m., everything sounds plausible. You start replaying a connection detail from three days ago like it’s game footage. You mentally re-measure a post hole. You reconsider a snow load calculation that was already conservative.
By 2:22, you’re briefly convinced you need to drive back out there in your slippers and verify something.
And then by 6:30 a.m., I’m back on site with a level and a tape measure, checking the same thing I checked yesterday.
It’s not efficient. But nothing has fallen down yet. So we press on.
The Illusion of “I’ve Seen It All”
Every trade has a danger zone. In construction, it’s the moment you think, “I’ve seen it all.”
That’s when the universe clears its throat.
I’ve built on calm, flat ground that behaved exactly as expected. I’ve also built on sites that introduced themselves politely and then revealed complicated personality traits halfway through excavation.
I’ve had projects where everything lined up beautifully, like the building wanted to exist. And I’ve had projects where every measurement felt like it was arguing with me.
The moment you stop asking questions is the moment something unusual shows up.
A slight grade difference.
A subtle twist in material.
A weather pattern that didn’t read the forecast.
Confidence is good. Complacency is expensive.
What Autopilot Builds
I’ve seen what happens when someone builds on autopilot.
The posts lean just enough that you notice it, but can’t quite explain it.
Doors track, technically, but with the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to mow the lawn.
Rooflines look straight from one angle and slightly philosophical from another.
The building stands. But it doesn’t feel right. There’s a difference between “good enough” and “I checked that twice because I care.”
You can feel it when you walk into a structure. It either feels settled and intentional, or it feels like it was assembled while someone was thinking about lunch.
I have never trusted autopilot. Unfortunately, my brain refuses to install it.
The Crew Factor
Now, I will say this: when you’ve worked with good people long enough, you start to trust more than just yourself.
There’s a rhythm to a seasoned crew. Measurements get called out. Levels get checked. Someone squints down a line and says, “Let’s look at that again.”
It’s not dramatic. It’s just steady.
And even then — even with good people and good process — my internal narrator still pipes up.
“Did we really check that corner?”
“Yes.”
“Again?”
There is no off switch. There is only “verify.”
Minnesota as a Teacher
If you want humility, build in Minnesota.
Build something in July when it’s 92 degrees and humid, and the steel is hot enough to reconsider your life choices. Then visit it in January when the wind is trying to relocate it to Wisconsin.
Minnesota winters are not theoretical. They are hands-on educators.
They load roofs.
They test fasteners.
They explore tiny imperfections like curious scientists.
If a building makes it through enough winters here, you start to trust it.
Cautiously, but nonetheless, you trust it.
The Upside (Apparently)
As much as I’d love to evict this mental tenant — maybe change the locks and pretend I’m not home — I have to admit something:
It keeps me careful; it keeps me from walking onto a job thinking, “I’ve built a hundred of these. What could possibly surprise me?”
Because that is exactly when something surprises you.
It keeps me measuring twice. Sometimes three times. Occasionally, four, if the tape measure looked at me funny.
It keeps me staring at a truss connection longer than strictly necessary.
It keeps me asking, “Does this feel right?” instead of “Is this fast?”
The inferiority complex may not be pleasant. But it is thorough.
Where I’ve Landed
After almost five decades, here’s what I’ve figured out:
Absolute certainty is suspicious. The builder who says, “I don’t worry about anything anymore,” is either lying or about to learn something memorable.
A little doubt means you’re still paying attention.
Still checking the square again, still stepping back and looking at the roofline from three different spots, still imagining February while standing in August.
I don’t love that I still second-guess myself. I do appreciate that the buildings don’t.
The inferiority complex and I have an arrangement now.
It raises a concern.
I check it.
If it’s fine, I move on.
If it’s not, I fix it.
It’s less of a flaw and more of a built-in inspection system.
Annoying. But effective.
So yes — after forty-eight years, I still occasionally wonder if I know what I’m doing.
I still sometimes wake up at 2:14 a.m. to recheck measurements that were already correct. I still look at a finished structure and think, “Is there something I’m missing?”
And then I stand there a minute longer.
I look at the posts, straight and steady. I look at the roofline cutting across a Minnesota sky that has absolutely no mercy whatsoever. I watch the wind hit it and move on.
And I think:
“Well. Apparently, I do.”
— Glenn
Still building.
Still checking.
Still mildly suspicious of everything, including myself.
