Never Answer An Anonymous Letter.
There are two kinds of people in this world: those who have received an anonymous letter, and those who claim they haven’t but absolutely have. Because nobody forgets that moment. You see the envelope first. No return address. No helpful clues. Just your name, staring back at you like it knows something you don’t. It’s the paper equivalent of someone saying, “Hey, we need to talk.” This one showed up on a perfectly normal day. No dramatic music. No thunder. Just sitting there like it belonged. That’s always the first red flag. I opened it. That was my first mistake. Short note. Friendly tone. A little complimentary. Just enough mystery to get the wheels turning. And immediately—before I even finished reading it—I knew exactly what I shouldn’t do next. Never answer an anonymous letter.
Curiosity Has Cost Me Real Money
If you’ve read any of my past ramblings, you already know this about me: I’m a curious person, and curiosity has billed me more than once. Curiosity is never loud. It doesn’t kick the door in. It just taps politely and says things like, “What’s the worst that could happen?” or “It’s probably nothing.” Both lies. Comfortable, well‑spoken lies. Anonymous letters are powered entirely by curiosity. They don’t tell you much, but they tell you just enough. Enough to reread it. Enough to tilt your head slightly. Enough to convince yourself that responding would be the polite thing to do. That’s how bad decisions put on a tie and call themselves reasonable ideas. In construction, curiosity shows up as skipped steps. Assumed measurements. That one corner that should be square. Curiosity says, “It’ll be fine.” Experience says, “Let’s grab the tape measure.” Experience is usually right. Curiosity usually sends a follow‑up invoice.
Anonymous Letters and Half‑Built Ideas
The letter reminded me of a certain kind of conversation we’ve had over the years. The kind where someone wants something—but can’t quite explain what. They’ll tell you what they don’t want. They’ll scroll through photos on their phone like they’re speed‑dating barns. They’ll say things like, “I’ll know it when I see it.” That’s an anonymous plan. No measurements. No materials. No budget. Just vibes. Buildings do not run on vibes. They run on numbers, angles, and decisions someone is willing to sign their name to. An anonymous letter works the same way. It asks you to engage without giving you anything solid to stand on. No context. No direction. No explanation. Who are you? Why are you writing? What exactly do you want from me? If I handed a builder that kind of information, they’d politely hand it right back.
Valentine’s Day Encourages Poor Judgment
Valentine’s Day doesn’t cause strange behavior—it simply gives it permission. People write things they wouldn’t normally write. Say things they wouldn’t normally say. Purchase balloons they absolutely cannot fit in their vehicle. Maybe this letter was from a secret admirer. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was someone who watched one too many romantic movies and decided anonymity was charming. It isn’t. Mystery is only cute when both sides agree to it. Otherwise, it’s just confusion wearing a pink sweater. And confusion has never built anything worth keeping. Not a relationship. Not a business. Not even a decent shed. If someone wants to be known, they’ll say who they are. If they want to be taken seriously, they’ll put their name on it. Cupid doesn’t get a pass on this rule.
Accountability Is Still the Most Attractive Feature
We put our name on every building we build. Always have. That’s not marketing—it’s responsibility. When your name is attached, shortcuts disappear. Guesswork gets uncomfortable. You stop hoping things work out and start making sure they do. Anonymous letters offer intrigue. Accountability offers stability. I’ve learned that the best partnerships—personal or professional—start with clarity. Clear plans. Clear expectations. Clear communication. Who are you? What are we doing? Who’s responsible when something goes sideways? If those questions don’t have answers, it’s probably not worth engaging.
Why I Didn’t Write Back (And Slept Fine Anyway)
I didn’t respond. Not because I was afraid. Not because I was rude. But because some things don’t deserve your time. Not every door needs to be opened just because it exists. In construction, we say no to projects that don’t make sense. Projects without plans. Projects without budgets. Projects built entirely on assumptions. Anonymous letters fall into the same category. Silence isn’t always avoidance. Sometimes it’s just good judgment.
Signed Letters, Solid Buildings, and Lessons Learned
The best things in life don’t hide behind mystery. Good relationships show up clearly. Good builders do too. They introduce themselves. They communicate plainly. They sign their name and stand behind what they’ve built. So if an anonymous letter shows up this Valentine’s Day, feel free to read it. Feel free to wonder for a minute. Maybe even laugh a little. But before you respond, remember this: If it matters, it won’t be anonymous. And if it’s worth your time, it’ll come with a name.
One Last Thing Before You Check the Mail
I should probably add this, because experience says someone will test the rule just to see what happens. If you do answer an anonymous letter, nothing immediately explodes. There’s no alarm. No siren. No dramatic lesson delivered by the universe. What happens instead is worse. You invite uncertainty to hang around. You create a conversation where one side knows everything and the other is guessing. You agree to play a game without knowing the rules, the score, or who brought the ball. That’s not brave. That’s inefficient. Life already has enough unknowns without us volunteering for extra ones. The same goes for building projects, business decisions, and Valentine’s Day emotions. So let the letter sit. Let it stay a mystery. Some things are better left unopened—or at least unanswered. That envelope didn’t need a reply. It needed a lesson. And now you’ve got one. — Glen
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About the Author
Glen Blamstead
Glen Blamstead here. I've been building pole barns in central Minnesota for going on fifty years, which means I have a bad knee, a strong opinion about column depth, and a truck that looks like a raccoon has been using it as a storage locker.
I live in Mora, where the coffee is strong, never quite hot enough, and mostly forgotten on whatever surface I set it down on three hours ago. My wardrobe is flannel, more flannel, and one "nice" shirt I wear when my wife tells me I have to. She also reads everything I write over my shoulder and has opinions. She is usually right. I will not be saying that again.
I've spent five decades talking to lumber, negotiating with frozen ground, and waking up at 2:14 in the morning to mentally re-measure a post hole that was already correct. I have an inferiority complex, but it's not a very good one. Experience hasn't made me confident — it's just given me a longer list of things to worry about, which I choose to call thoroughness.
When I'm not on a jobsite, I'm probably at the Mora Farmers' Market arguing with a stubborn goose, watching a golden retriever lean against a stranger like a furry recliner, or trying to carry all the groceries in one trip because I am a man of ambition and poor planning.
I write about pole buildings, life, waffles, dead fish, snow angels in places you shouldn't make them, and whatever else wanders into my head while the coffee goes cold. My philosophy is simple: measure twice, check it again, and if someone is crouching behind a flatbed truck, find out why before you open the door.
I've been repeating the same mistakes for so long now I call them traditions. But nothing has fallen down yet. So we press on.
Still building. Still checking. Still mildly suspicious of everything, including myself.