When asked to explain how we grow cranberries, I always begin by saying, “I’m not a real cranberry farmer. I just play one on T.V.” I can say that truthfully. I don’t qualify to the title farmer, but I did have 0.15 seconds of fame in a cranberry commercial. If I’m doing a presentation about the farm for kids, I elaborate on my harvest abilities with, “I’m able to take directions fairly well, so I’m one step up from a trained monkey.”
But would you like an inside “scoop” on life at the farm for a trained monkey turned TV Farmer? The Big Farmers are always ready to school me on how they want things done. Before I tell you this story, here’s an aside to pave the way.
My son Alex, spent every minute he could working on the farm from the time he was old enough to make the sputtering cough noise of our “cranky tractors,” (his toddler title for a machine with treads.) One day when he was around sixteen, he experienced this “Big Farmer” schooling first-hand. When sent to dig a trench, he went after it with gusto. Along came Big Farmer No. 1 who said, “You don’t want to do it that way. Do it like this.” Alex, being the respectful young man he was, did not argue that his digging method worked well enough, and switched to Big Farmer No. 1’s method.
Not long after, Big Farmer No. 2 came along and watched Alex digging for a moment, then announced, “You don’t want to do it that way. Do it like this,” and proceeded to tell Alex to dig the way he was prior to Big Farmer No. 1’s schooling. Now, on to the real story.
Uncle Barry and Aunt Sue are here from their home in Tennessee to help out during harvest. Uncle Barry’s status is far above mine as trainable monkey. He is a reel-man. Notice that was spelled r-e-e-l? While he is a real man, he jokingly says he’s the reel-man on the farm because he takes charge of the reel that winds and unwinds the cran-boom, which corals the berries.
I tell Uncle Barry how a few weeks before this cranberry season, I read some advice from an effectiveness guru, who says, “Instead of wasting time arguing with someone trying to school you, just say, ‘You’re probably right,’ and walk away.” I decide instead of questioning the logic of the directions I am given during harvest this year, I will employ the mantra of my effectiveness guru and say, “You’re probably right,” then walk away. Uncle Barry understands the way of harvest schoolings, so we laugh about this excellent survival strategy. (Uncle Barry has the best laugh. It starts as a light, “Hee hee,” but turns into a gutty gusto-ing giggle then a full-fledged knee slapping crack up. And let me tell you, it’s infectious.) Pretty soon, both of us are answering most everyone’s schoolings with, “You’re probably right.” Each time we crack ourselves up, and I’m pretty sure the other farmers, big and small alike, think we’ve lost our marbles.
A couple of weeks into the season, while enjoying some delicious Aunt Susie lunch offerings, Uncle Barry confesses to Big Farmer No. 2 about our new conflict resolution method. “When you don’t need an argument, you just tell the other person, ‘You’re probably right,’ and move on about your business.”
Big Farmer No. 2 takes this in and cocks his head to the side in thought. After a moment he argues, “I think I would rather say, ‘You might be right.’”
I can’t look at Uncle Barry. I will laugh and it might get me in trouble. We don’t argue or try to school Big Farmer No. 2. That would defeat the purpose!
Later, I say. “I don’t think he gets it, Uncle Barry.”
“You’re probably right.” And don’t you know, he turns and walks away.
Your Turn: Would you rather prove your point and have an argument or let the other guy think he’s right and save the energy?
I guess it depends on the moment and what’s at stake with my response of, “ You’re probably right.” I’ve conceded when being “schooled” but have also given my opinion.