Well, howdy and hello to all you fine folks nursing your morning coffee or evening cocoa. It’s me, Glenn Blamstead, your friendly neighborhood fool with a mustache that looks like it lost a bet with a caterpillar. If you’ve stuck with my stories so far—from the pie-in-the-face disaster at the Mora Muskrat Festival to the great fence rebellion in Ogilvie—you know my life is one big “oops” wrapped in a chuckle.
Last time around, I was out there waving bedsheets and dodging splintery slats like they were flying squirrels. But today? We’re heading east to Hinckley for a “Battle of the Brains” at the Legion Hall. Think trivia night, but with more trash talk and fewer actual facts. I’m the guy who once thought “fine-apple” was flirting, so picture me trying to outwit a pro. Grab a seat, because in a battle of wits, I consider you unarmed—unless your weapon of choice is a rolled-up newspaper.
The Postcard That Started the Madness
It all began with a postcard from Uncle Mort, the family wise guy who’s been steering me straight—or at least trying—since I was small enough to fit in a lunchbox. Mort’s seventy-two, with a smile wider than a combine header and enough stories to fill a silo. His handwriting looked like it was done with a stick in the dirt: “Glenn, Hinckley’s got a wit showdown at the Legion. Bring Earl and Lila—that girl who puts up with your nonsense. She’ll stop you from eating the microphone.” Lila. Man, where do I start? She’s the one who laughed off my cotton-candy catastrophe at the fair and somehow stuck around. Blonde hair that catches the sun like it’s showing off, eyes bluer than a gas station icee, and a patience level that could tame a tornado. We’ve been together since that awkward “fine-apple” line, building something real amid my usual chaos.
So off we went in Earl’s Ram, that truck that’s seen more miles than a marathoner. Earl’s driving, grumbling like always, Lila up front with her thermos of “wake-up juice”—coffee strong enough to wake a hibernating bear—and Uncle Mort sprawled in the back, already cracking jokes about the upholstery. Earl, my cousin and eternal voice of reason, fiddled with the AC like it owed him money. “Glenn, this whole ‘battle of wits’ deal? Sounds like a polite way to say ‘watch amateurs embarrass themselves.’ Why not skip it and go dig some post holes? Dirt’s quiet.” Earl’s the practical one—hauls the heavy stuff while I swing the hammer crooked. But he’s family, so he drags me into these things with that look that says, “You’re an idiot, but you’re my idiot.”
We hit Hinckley right as the sun was calling it quits, painting the sky all rosy and reluctant. The Legion Hall sat there like an old friend—solid brick, flags waving lazily, and inside? The smell of fresh pie and fresh grudges. Folks were milling around: burly loggers, chatty retirees, a couple teachers looking like they graded on a curve.
Stepping into the Spotlight—or the Trap
And holding court at the front was Vic “The Verb” Vandermeer, this slick newcomer from the Cities who talks like he’s auditioning for a radio show. He spotted us faster than a deer sees headlights. “Blamstead! The man who builds barns and breaks icebreakers. Heard you got a knack for knotty problems. Ready to tangle tongues?” Vic’s got that grin—part charmer, part challenger—like he’s daring you to like him. Lila gave me a little shove. “Go on, Glenn. You’ve got heart. The brain part? We’ll fake it.” Uncle Mort snorted from his chair, twisting a napkin into what might’ve been a noose. “Kid, if you bomb, I’m telling everyone the mustache was my idea.” Earl just ordered sodas and muttered something about “professional time-wasters.”
I shuffled up, boots sticking to the floor like they were glued in solidarity. Vic and I clicked right away, or maybe clashed—like a square peg admiring the round hole. He was exactly the kind of sparring partner I didn’t know I needed: quick with a quip, always one step ahead, but never mean about it. “Glenn,” he said into the mic, leaning like he owned the place, “in a battle of wits, you’re bringing a slingshot to my catapult. Favorite category? ‘Why Did the Barn Go to Therapy?'” The crowd chuckled, and I felt that old familiar panic sweat— the kind that hits when you realize your fly’s down at a wedding. But I rallied. “Vic, if wits were walleye, you’d be the one that got away—slimy and full of tall tales.” That got a solid laugh, warm as fresh donuts, and we were off to the races: trading zingers over fizzy drinks like it was the Old West, but with root beer instead of rotgut.
First round was movies, Vic firing off, “Indiana Jones’ worst nightmare? A fedora shortage on casual Friday.” I shot back, “Nah, it’s sequel season—more whips, less sense.” Lila clapped like I was Oscar-bound, her smile saying she’d back me even if I recited the phone book.
Earl Gets Dragged into the Fray
Halfway through, Earl wandered over, probably to rescue me or just escape Mort’s bad puns. “Alright, you two chatterboxes,” he grumbled, arms folded like a human drawbridge, “if this is about brains, why’s the prize a cheap trophy that looks like a melted candle? Overcompensating much?” Vic latched on like a tick at a picnic. “Earl! The silent strong type. We could use you—’Blamstead and the Brick Wall,’ building laughs and blocking bad ideas.” Earl blinked, caught off guard, but Lila jumped in smooth as syrup. “Watch it, Vic. Earl’s the foundation—keeps things from falling flat. Glenn’s the roof—leaky, but full of character.” She patted my arm, and yeah, if relationships were buildings, she’s the part that doesn’t leak in a storm.
The night ramped up, air getting thick with pie crumbs and one-upmanship. Uncle Mort got pulled into the “Old Timers’ Tirade” round against a grandma who could glare holes in steel. “Mort, that your A-game? My canasta club’s got sharper tongues.” Mort twinkled back, “Honey, your wit’s like my first car—rusty and runs on fumes.” The place exploded, and I swelled up proud: Mort’s the guy who taught me to swing a hammer without hitting my thumb, always saying a good story’s like a good beam—straight and supportive.
Vic kept circling, dropping lines like breadcrumbs. During a break, he leaned in. “Glenn, that mustache? It’s like two fuzzy caterpillars decided to room together. Adorable disaster.” I laughed it off—hey, I’m used to being the punchline. “Your hair, Vic? Receding like my hairline after a bad perm. At least mine’s got personality.” We clinked cans, easy as that, and Lila’s eyes met mine across the room—soft, steady, like she was saying, “You’re ridiculous, and I love it.” She’s from Braham, grew up with more books than barbells, and somehow turns my stumbles into steps forward.
Teams, Trivia, and a Touch of History
Things went team-style next, and wouldn’t you know, Earl got roped into “Hinckley Highlights”—him paired with Vic on that big fire from ’98, the one that turned the town to toast but toughened it up. Vic quipped, “What beat the blaze? Firemen with egos bigger than the bonfire.” I hollered from the side, “Or the mosquitos—they’re fireproof.” Earl, waiting his turn like a coiled spring, dropped, “The folks here. Got charred, came back charmer.” Boom—the crowd lost it, Vic slapping the table. “Earl, you’re a dark horse! Hang up the hammer, pick up the mic.” Earl turned redder than a rusty wrench but later bumped my fist, whispering, “Don’t get cocky, clown.”
By now, the hall was buzzing like a hive with a honey heist in progress. Tables sticky with spills, faces flushed from laughs more than the heat. Vic and I hit the big one: “Final Face-Off,” building on each other’s lines until somebody cracked like an egg on a hot sidewalk. He started strong: “In a battle of wits…” I jumped in, “I’m the underdog—you’re the guy who trips over his own ego.” Vic fired, “Ego? Yours is a speed bump—barely noticeable.” Me: “And yours is a pothole—swallows cars whole.” It sped up, words flying faster than snow in a squall, the room chanting like we were gladiators in gym shorts.
The Twist That Almost Tripped Me
Then Vic threw the curveball, the one that had everyone leaning in. “Glenn, if pole barns are your jam, why does your wit sound like a half-built shed—charming, but missing a wall?” The place went quiet as a library on lunch break. Lila giggled, supportive as ever; Mort nodded like “Hit ’em hard, kid”; Earl rolled his eyes but with that brotherly fondness. It stung a bit, sure—wit walking the tightrope between fun and ouch. But Vic wasn’t being a jerk; he was poking to see if I’d pop back up, like a good coach yelling at a rookie.
I took a breath, deep as diving for a lost tool in the lake. “Vic, my wit’s no shed—it’s a treehouse: wobbly, full of surprises, and Lila swears by the view. Yours? It’s a mansion—fancy, but I’d get lost looking for the bathroom.” The roar hit like a thunderclap, chairs scraping as folks stood. Vic laughed hardest, pulling me into a bro-hug. “Touché, timber man. You’re loaded for bear after all.” We swapped numbers right there—him promising to swing by Mora for a “rematch over ribs,” me offering tips on jokes that don’t flop like a fish on dry land.
Heading Home with a Glow (and a Trophy)
Morning light crept in sneaky, turning the parking lot gold as we loaded up, me clutching the trophy—a goofy cup engraved “Wit Wizard: Glenn ‘The Goof’ Blamstead.” Earl took the wheel for the trek back, quieter than usual, chewing on the night. “Wasn’t a total wash, Glenn,” he admitted. “Kinda like framing a lean-to—shaky start, solid finish.” Mort snored in the back, probably dreaming of his comeback glory. Lila tucked against me, murmuring, “You were great, my favorite fool. Next time, though? Let’s skip the stage and build something small—just us.” Her words hit warmer than a fresh-baked loaf, reminding me the best builds aren’t the big barns, but the little connections that weather any storm.
Vic’s already a fixture now, firing off texts that keep my brain from rusting. “Quick one: Why’d the scarecrow ace the quiz? He was outstanding in his field.” I hit back: “Why’d the post join? To support without the drama.” It sharpens me up, clears the mental cobwebs. And the family? Closer than ever, like we’ve added extra braces. Earl’s even tossing around ideas for a “Blamstead Yapper Shack”—nothing fancy, no sales pitch, just a spot for shooting the breeze over bad coffee.
So here’s to scraps that end in handshakes, where being the butt of the joke just means you’re in on it. Wit isn’t about winning—it’s about the wiggle room it gives your soul. Keep your laughs loud and your loved ones looped in. This is Glenn Blamstead, signing off from the edge of the woods, where every day’s a new nail to hammer crooked.
