Nearly everyone has heard Willie Nelson’s signature song of life on the road. It tells the tale of a vagabond soul who finds enlightenment and fulfillment as he wanders across the country.

Look at my curriculum vitae and my life seems all too parallel in its make-up. I’d attach a copy of it for your reading pleasure, but it’s nearly four pages long and would probably bore you in its repetition.

Being compared to Willie Nelson is not all that bad. In fact, aside from the fact that I have never, never smoked weed, Willie and I do have a lot in common.

First, we have always done things our way. Ever since the day I got separated from the rest of my company in the jungle of South Vietnam and made the decision to go left at a fork in the road (it was the correct decision — I found them), I have absolutely trusted in my ability to make decisions when they had to be made. Willie was faced with a similar situation in the late ’60s when his career was going nowhere fast. The Nashville cookie-cutter approach to producing country stars didn’t fit Willie, so he picked up his guitar and family and went home to Texas. Taking up residence in a place known as the Armadillo World Headquarters, he began producing his own music. Three years later, the "Outlaw" movement was born and Willie, Waylon, Jessi Coulter and Tompall Glaser made "Wanted: The Outlaws"— the first country album to sell a million copies.

Listening to the voice within and not bending to authority had started Willie on his way; his unparalleled talent closed the deal.

Like Willie, I have walked from situations that didn’t smell right. I have left jobs that paid more money than a box-kicker should ever make because I simply did not agree with the direction or ethics of some of the people involved.

Like Willie, I have no regrets.

Another aspect of Willie is his loyalty to family, friends and neighbors.

During my career, the things I am proudest of are the people whose potential I saw before they saw it themselves. Four people immediately come to mind. The first is Keith Edwards (not his real name). We all called him "Uncle Keith" or "Big Bird." He stood 6 feet 6 inches tall and had an All-world Afro. Keith had been in a car accident in junior high school, and was in a state of somewhat arrested development. I worked and played softball with him at Baptist in Miami. For some unknown reason, he suddenly disappeared for a couple of years, during which time I became director of materials at South Miami Hospital.

One day Keith showed up asking for a job. I needed a manager for the patient transportation service, but I knew where Keith had been. I told myself that if he were to answer my most direct question honestly, I’d hire him.

"Where have you been the last two years," I asked. "In prison," he replied.

I hired him, and he became an excellent manager. I knew that it was possible that I could be fired for hiring him, but I felt he needed a chance. And I was willing to give it to him. I have never regretted my decision.

Debbie McCarty was our Receptionist at Timken Mercy Medical Center in Canton, Ohio. When we faced a situation where the hospital was losing money and needed to slash FTEs, I made a decision not to fill open positions, but to retrain and re-assign people as needed. We had a buyer leave, so I suggested we make Debbie a buyer. That was in 1985. She’s still there today.

Todd Rupert may be the most unlikely of my "projects." Todd was the storeroom supervisor at Timken Mercy. He was a psycho-job and I could probably write a year’s worth of columns about his craziness, but nobody – nobody – I have ever worked with knew inventory like Todd. When I got to MetroHealth Medical Center in Cleveland, I needed a materials management information system manager. Todd was the logical choice — except for one thing: Todd had absolutely no idea how to even turn on a computer (this was 1991).

So of course, I hired him. We implemented the Continental Matkon system and Todd became an absolute whiz with it. My logic was that anyone can learn to operate a computer and a software application, but inventory experts are rare. Turns out, I was right, and Todd helped refine the application.

Finally, there is Joe Powers here at Finley. Joe — like Todd — is an absolute expert on the storeroom. He has worked here for 27 years, and when the position of stores buyer opened up, I interviewed several candidates and chose Joe. Joe is the kind of person that takes responsibility seriously. Give him a task and he gets it done. At Finley we are fortunate to have several people in materials (like Joe and Sherry Weiner and Jan Ford and Lynne Jasper) who are willing to work outside the narrow confines of their job description when the situation calls for it. Joe was the right choice for the job, but I doubt if many people would have taken the time to take the chance and give him the opportunity.

When Willie got in trouble and the IRS forced him to sell all his stuff, his friends bought it all and gave it back to him. Certainly such a demonstration of love and affection had to feel good to him.

When I took the job as director of materials at MetroHealth in Cleveland, two of my former employees at Timken Mercy quit their jobs to come work with me. For three years Todd Rupert, Nancy McFarland and I drove 110 miles round trip every day. I realize that people don’t make a sacrifice like that for someone they don’t like and respect. For me it felt like Willie must have felt when his friends bought his stuff and gave it back to him.