You Don't Know What You Think You Know

"When you come up to the brink of every hill, imagine there’s a loaded manure spreader just over the top... and it’s stalled in the middle of the road.”

That’s the advice my grandfather gave to me one day while we were out driving the back roads. I’d probably stepped a little too hard on the accelerator, or maybe I was crowding the center line in his big old tank of a Chevy Caprice. But, the subtext of his message was clear to me:  

You don’t know what you think you know.

My grandfather was the Director of Economic Development for a rural county in upstate New York. A World War II veteran, an accomplished ragtime piano player, and a diehard fan of the St. Louis Cardinals, he had a gift for connecting people, ideas, and resources.

The year I turned 11, we moved in with him, and it was a wonderful time for our family. We’d host dinners and backyard picnics for local bankers, farmers, musicians, church leaders, physicians, and manufacturing leaders. Often invited to the table or welcome to sit in a chair with a book, I’d listen in and learn from his work.

One day, one of Grandpa’s clients dropped by with a developer friend. It turned out this "friend" was stalling negotiations on the building of a new hospital in the area. This fella was trying to get in on the deal, but wanted to delay it and pursue another location he felt would “better serve the community’s interests.” Apparently, the developer thought my grandfather was “too attached” to the location already earmarked for the project.

I remember the developer, frustrated, saying, “What does it matter to you what the street address is? Your name is already all over the project.”

The developer superimposed his own values on the situation, and he got it wrong. My grandfather wasn’t concerned with getting credit. He wasn’t worried about his legacy. The street address did matter because he was worried about his neighbors.

• Grandpa was worried about the local restaurant and shopkeepers who didn’t have enough foot traffic to sustain their businesses and take care their families. 
• He was worried about the local schools that didn’t have the tax dollars to be competitive with other county schools and give us kids the experiences we’d need to grow up and take care of ourselves and our families. 
• He was worried about the manufacturing jobs migrating closer and closer to the city. 
• He was worried about the little kids who fell out of the apple trees and broke their arms. Like my brother. 
• He was worried about young mothers who suffered complications at childbirth or went into labor two months too soon. Like my mom. 
• He was worried about his friends, other senior citizens who suffered strokes, heart attacks, brain aneurysms and couldn’t get the help they needed in time. Like his wife, my grandmother.

You don’t know what you think you know.

I was reminded of my grandfather’s words a few days ago as my daughter and I drove up the hill toward our house. Like the developer at my grandfather’s dining room table, I assumed I was almost home.

A bicyclist, then an SUV came screaming over the top. The SUV, trying to avoid the cyclist, never considered someone might be coming up the other side. Caught up in her own thoughts, racing along her own path, she had also assumed too much and crossed the center line, crowding my lane.

Thankfully, my grandfather's voice appeared in my head as I'd begun my ascent up the hill, and I realized I should proceed more carefully. Ever since that proverbial near-miss, I've been thinking about how I can be more vigilant in avoiding assumptions. Here's what's shaking out:

• Check your assumptions at the door.
• There is always a story behind the story.
• There is always a reason you cannot guess.
• There is always an expectation you simply cannot expect.
• Practice patience.
• Slow down.
• What are your options?
• What’s your plan?
• Where and how can you make room for new possibilities?
• Listen. Louder.

You don’t know what you think you know.