The end of the Don Imus Show is the latest in a continuing saga of events generated by our continuously morphing society. What did Imus do? He went where numerous other shock hosts have gone before him, but society reacted more profoundly this time as we continue our collective struggle to define our emerging consciousness.

Collectively, we are clearly approaching a major paradigm shift internationally that has been fashioned by the enormous technological advances that our world has been experiencing during the previous decade. Predicated upon the fact that we are now totally and completely tied to each other world wide for the first time in history, this transformation has resulted in the broadest societal change that the Earth has ever faced.

We are hooked up on multiple levels. From the mountains of Afghanistan to the deserts of Saudi Arabia, from the Arctic to Siberia, our fellow human beings have wireless communication devices that provide contact capacity where it had never existed before.

We now have the ability to commune through the Internet, through cell phones, through Treos and Blackberries with almost anyone anywhere in the world. When teenage kids join each other in chat rooms across continents, nothing goes unchallenged. Regardless if it is the misstatement from leaders, from clergy or from a shock jock, they now have the ability to confirm, verify and validate immediately and completely by tapping some keys or simply calling each other. This quantity of massive change has resulted in anger, fear and a certain amount of chaos as we struggle to define new pathways in our culture because this connectedness creates new truths and new accountability.

What Imus did, either intentionally or unintentionally, was demean a portion of our society, and, even though it previously cost us half a million lives to determine the actual definition of a human being during the Civil War, and in spite of the fact that Women’s Suffrage is long over, our civilization seems to finally be emerging in a positive manner in that it is no longer interested in supporting hurtful comments that degrade or humiliate our brothers and sisters.

The rules are changing. Don selected the wrong string of words from an old belief system that, even in jest, has now cost him his $10M a year salary. It is clear that many of us do not want to continue to support a philosophy of meanness. It seems that our civilization is in the long process of learning to be kind, and it is the duty and responsibility of our leaders and icons to be honest brokers of the truth. For that miscalculation it was determined that Imus has failed, and now we will move on to determine what our new societal standards will become.

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THE BEESON COUSINS, CIRCA 1950

My mom’s family had eight siblings, and this picture was a representative sampling of their offspring.  It looks like at least a few were missing: Joe, Bill, Eddie and Bobby were already starting families of their own or were on their way to Korea.

That was me in the front row trying to make a getaway.  My brother and my cousin Ray, the blonde guy, were holding onto me.  If you look to the right, my cousins Wallace and Elaine are just watching in pure wonderment at my silliness as Kenny, the baby in the top row, is looking for a choo choo train.  (He is an extremely successful computer programmer now.)

That group went on to become nurses, teachers, a librarian, railroaders, technologists, carpenters, musicians, store owners, and a dozen other professions.  Only three or four of us got to go to college, and at least half moved away to places like California, Pittsburgh, Chicago, and Florida.  About five of my cousins have passed on, but the rest try to stay in touch in different ways on a regular basis.

We came from a family that started a town called Uniontown, south of Pittsburgh, founded by a Quaker named Henry Beeson in 1769. The town was so named because it was built on two farms, and our Uncle and great great great Grandfather had a dispute over whose name the town would bear.  This is a riot since the farms were owned by Henry and his brother Jacob.  Let’s see: “We’ll name it Beesontown. No, we’ll name it Beesontown.”  They decided to end the argument by naming it Uniontown, the union of their two properties.

Some of our ancestors had done alright: one was a Senator; there were officers and soldiers in the Continental and Union armies; one was a friend of the Marquis d’ Lafayette; another was the Owner of the Long Branch Saloon in Dodge City, Kansas; another a philanthroper who started the Beeson Divinity School at Samford University (I always thought it was Stanford); and one even taught a young man to play piano who would later become the President of the United States (and be impeached).

My favorite story, though, was the cousin who became an Indian Chief.  He was kidnapped by a tribe of Native Americans from Florida.  After ten years he had become so involved in their culture that they made him the chief.  As chief he was permitted to do anything he wanted.  He decided to come back home.  After a few months back home, he then realized how good Florida had been and went back to his tribe.

It’s kind of ironic to me that, even at this young age, my goal was to break away and have a shot at making a difference.  It’s certainly been an interesting journey these past few decades because the spirit that existed in that little boy in the picture still burns brightly in me.

How interesting it seemed to me that, after all these years of fighting the wave, all I really wanted to do was to help to redirect the energy of that wave to make the health care experience more meaningful, more human, more purposeful, more dignified and more nurturing.

The great unifiers, love and respect, are really what it’s about.  So, as we move into our 123rd month of working here at Windber, it is with a better view of a very old picture.  It’s about doing all that we can to encourage respect for every person who works here, visits here and is treated here.

Thanks, Jacob, Henry, Wallace and Mary Beeson for giving me a good pad from which to launch.

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Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) said, “Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.”

As one of my former CEO’s used to take great pride in saying, “The secret is there is no secret.”

So, who would’a thunk it? Readership of this blog is increasing dramatically. I suspect that we will see even more activity this week-end as people tune in to find out what happened at Friday and Saturday’s Health System Board meetings.
…
Okay. So, I’ll just tell you that the secret is there are no secrets.

Finally, in the “Facts from Florida” column. Here’s one of the most disconcerting things that I heard at my ACHE course last week. If you are a child today, there is a 30% chance that you will develop Type II diabetes. One third of our children today will be afflicted with Type II diabetes and the devastating impact of that disease. Now, besides the fact that we are overweight, underexercised and nutritionally bankrupt, here’s one of the other reasons why: We are spending 2.2 trillion dollars this year on health care in the United States and only about 4% of those monies are being spent on preventative medicine.

Think about it.

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I‘ve written a slew of Christmas blogs, stories and memories.  This week’s blog is about S. I. Hayakawa and his book, Language in Thought and Action.  It was written in the late 40′s, and hadn’t made it to the general college curriculum until the 1960′s.   As a freshmen college student my impression of the book was that it was about thought and mind control through the use of disinformation. 

"The original version of this book, Language in Action, published in 1941, was in many respects a response to the dangers of propaganda, especially as exemplified in Hitler’s success in persuading millions to share his maniacal and destructive views. It was the writer’s conviction . . . that everyone needs to have a habitually critical attitude towards language — his own as well as that of others — both for the sake of his personal well-being and for his adequate functioning as a citizen.  Hitler is gone, but if the majority of our fellow citizens are more susceptible to the slogans of fear and race hatred than to those of peaceful accommodation and mutual respect among human beings, our political liberties remain at the mercy of any eloquent and unscrupulous demagogue."

What took me back to former Senator Hayakawa’s book was the happenstances of this week’s reported events.  At a Holiday Party, I had the distinct misfortune of sharing a passionate conversation with someone who agrees with only about 1% of my personal views of the world. He was very upset that anyone would have accused Marines of having massacred citizens of Iraq. Just a few days later, it was publicized that the Marines were held for trial for that massacre by the Marine Corps.

According to an indictment approved Dec. 13 by a grand jury in Orlando, the brother-in-law of a former PA Congressional candidate was arrested on child pornography charges .

Finally, I received a telephone call from a reporter from a prominent Washington newspaper who wanted to write a story about his view of perceived inappropriateness of a relationship between our Congressman and two lobbying firms in Washington D.C.  This story emanated from our own area.  Someone from the Johnstown area called the reporter to initiate this slanted, investigative reporting. He freely admitted that to me.

What struck me about all of these stories was not their content.  After all, sadly, soldiers have been accused of inappropriate massacres since the beginning of mankind and of war.  Although child pornography is upsetting to all of us, it was not the disturbing nature of that story that was bothersome, it was the lack of coverage of the story.  Finally, my perception of the very solid role lobbying groups have played in helping our area begin to emerge from near economic ruin to some infinitely small amount of economic viability was not the issue here. Rather, it was the blatant attempt on the part of the reporter to block out the truth, to turn the truth into his perception of truth, and it was about his lack of desire to hear the truth.

What brought back Dr. Hayakawa’s book was the way the different wings of the press handled or attempted to manipulate these stories.  Some papers decided either that they weren’t stories or that they were very little stories.  Some thought they were important BIG stories, and some tried to make stories out of nothing.

As someone who has had to respond to the press for nearly 30 years, I can tell you that, when you run into a sensationalist, it is rarely a pleasant experience.  You can always be sure that your words will be twisted and turned to his liking.  You can usually tell in the first thirty seconds where the reporter is going with the story, and when they constantly reject the truth in your statements and push and push toward their point of view, you quickly realize that it is NOT going to be a good or honest story, not a true story, not an accurate story. 

The part that made me most uncomfortable and has continued to make me uncomfortable is that our media, and many times our legal system doesn’t seem to care about the truth, the correct or honest answers, or the moral high ground.  They care about THEIR story, their slant, their spin, their political view.  They care about readers, and sales and settlements.

So, as S.I. Hayakawa said, "Cow one is NOT cow two."  Look carefully at the cows.  Decide what you’re seeing, and try to objectively differentiate the realities between them.  I had five witnesses in my office during the story with the Washington reporter, and that’s what thirty years has taught me.

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As the Holiday Season swings into full gear, it always becomes a time of anticipation and reflection. It just seems like yesterday that I was asking for that Allied Van Line toy truck as my last Santa present, which, by the way, he screwed up and gave me a Wyandott Moving Van instead. It took fifty years, but now I can say that it was the thought that counted.

The Holidays were always a time for hot chocolate, cookies, turkey and ham barbecues?  What do I know?  It was just our tradition?  The family would go to midnight church services and come back, open one present each, eat, and go to bed to await the coming celebration. It was lots and lots of work for the moms, and lots of curses for the dads as the presents were constructed, reconstructed, or deconstructed.

Dad and mom didn’t drink, but on this very special occasion, a tiny glass of Mogen David elderberry wine was consumed and for the next twenty minutes all they complained about was how hot their cheeks were.

Well, this year we have plenty of things to be thankful for…starting with our health.  We have plenty of things to look forward to as well, but, of course, the usual Holiday tensions abound.

Tonight, three more holiday gatherings, and a continuing argument by some of our contracted employees over holiday work coverage.  We have political maneuvering going on in every direction over numerous topics, and it’s my job to sit back, take a deep breath or seven, sort through what’s real and what’s not, dig to the bottom of the story, and make a decision based on the facts.  Yeah, that’s the holiday spirit.

Wonder if the guy who said, “There’s no room at the Inn” ever had any second thoughts?  Nah, it was planned that way.  As a former Quaker, Presbyterian, Catholic, and secular humanist, my mom always thought that everything was predestined.  So, maybe this is a cute little play that is just moving along one page at a time.

Well, let’s enjoy our families, our friends, our loved ones and our neighbors.  Let’s forgive and forget.  Let’s look forward to a better New Year, and be good, for goodness sake.

A song from the seventies always replays in my mind by the brother and sister group, The Carpenters:

Sometimes not often enough
We reflect upon the good things
And those thoughts always center around those we love
And I think about those people who mean so much to me
And for so many years have made me so very happy
And I count the times I have forgotten to say “thank you”
And just how much I love them

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It’s no secret that my first forty-plus years or so were totally wrapped up in music.  Actually, it all started when my Aunt Mildred gave me my Cousin Jack’s drum sticks at the age of eight.  You see, Jack and Uncle Bill were great drummers. So, my private lessons began when I was two years short of a decade, and continued through graduate school. There were tens of thousands of dollars worth of private, one-on-one instruction from all makes and models of teachers. 

This blog, however, was intended to give you an idea about goal setting and accomplishments related to that end. 

At age 15, my professional trumpet teacher in Pittsburgh informed me that it was time to prepare for the Carnegie Mellon Honors Band auditions.  This 100+ member band was made up of only the area’s very best musicians.  Literally hundreds and hundreds of music students from all over Western PA, Ohio and West Virginia converged on the CMU campus and stood in front of the region’s top teachers to compete for the highly prestigious positions available in this phenomenal band.  For example, a couple of hundred trumpet players would vie for the 10 or so seats available to trumpet players.

So, what was the drill?  First, those individuals who studied with the top music professors in the City of Pittsburgh had an edge.  It was important for me to get a spot with Carnegie Mellon’s Anthony L. Pasquarelli who, for many years, was the most sought-after free lance trumpeter in Pittsburgh.

What else did it take? It took disciplined practice, hours and hours of practice.  It took discipline to also keep from over extending myself during the normal, daily musical endeavors, i.e., don’t blow  your brains or your lips out at the football game or the Thanksgiving parade. 

The other very very big requirement was to select the proper solo.  Typically, the solos were professional level, and required months to learn and then to memorize.  Actually, the solos were usually written by Herbert Clarke, who is widely considered one of the greatest cornet soloists of all time. and, believe me when I tell you that this guy was a freak of nature.  It was ALMOST impossible to even get through one of his solos. 

Then came the intangible, development of self-confidence.  Tony taught us how to appear self confident. He taught us how to carry ourselves when we walked into the room.  He taught us how to take out our horns and look confident and self assured, and then, as a back-up, he insisted on our carrying in a glass of water in case we got dry mouth from nerves.  We also performed in front of our peers for practice to help us get over the nerves thing.

When the day came, you stood in line for a long long time, went into the room, played pieces of your solo for the judges, and waited for a week or so to hear who made it. 

Here’s the part that made music real: After three years of trying and trying, practicing and practicing for literally hundreds of focused hours and a total commitment of heart, mind and soul I took my best shot.  After three years of work to make sure I had the right, professional trumpet, the best possible lessons (that were twice as much as we could afford), you were armed and ready.  After driving back and forth to Pittsburgh every Saturday for three years and memorizing the impossible solos, you knew you were on the right track.  After mastering my nerves and my ability to play the required music, the results came back three times that I had not made it.  The last year, I believe that I made alternate.  That meant that, if one of the kids on last chair got sick, I would have had a chance to get into the band. I never got into the Honors Band. 

Why, you may ask?  It was because of God or nature or fate.  Talent was the only uncontrollable thing that kept me out.  It might have been the fact that my teeth were a little crooked and my folks couldn’t afford braces.  It might have been because I was the work horse of my high school marching band, and this all took place during football season when my lip felt like chopped liver most of the time, but, most probably, it was because at least ten of the players were just more talented.

What a great life lesson/s.  Getting into that band was the single most important thing in my life at that time, and my efforts never were good enough to get me in.  Practice was never the problem.  Commitment was never the problem.  Sensitivity to the music was never the problem.  Pure, raw, unadulterated talent was most probably the problem.  Regardless, the discipline, the persistence, the training, the hard work, the desire have all stayed with me for my entire life.

So, let me end by saying, "Keep music in the schools."  It really can make a positive difference in plenty of lives, and it’s also good to remember that the people who don’t make all of their goals have plenty to prove the rest of their life.  Hence, my total commitment to all of my jobs these past several decades. I’ll show those yum yums . . .

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Early on in my health care career, a consultant was hired by the system executives to evaluate the management team of which I was the newest member.  After about two days of interacting with the CEO, COO, CFO, VP of Nursing, VP of Human Resources and me, the consultant candidly pulled me aside and said, "Of all of the management teams I have interacted with, this team has the lowest ‘Buzz‘ level I’ve ever encountered."  My response was, "What do you mean?"  To which he replied, "I had to check to see if they even had a heart beat." 

It was about three months after that visit that, one by one, the team began to move on.  In fact, I had a group photo of the seven of us and, one by one, the team began to vanish.  It was like the movie, "Back to the Future," where the faces disappeared from the page until I was the only person left from the team. 

The lesson that I learned was that you need to Buzz to survive.  It’s funny because, as I look over our teams, my personal radar takes me right back to the old Buzz level!

Now, the Buzz that I look for is not a negative, gossipy, whiny, cry baby buzz.  It’s a pumped up, positive, excited, let’s-grow-and-go-and-make-it-happen buzz.

If I want to be depressed, afraid, or to encourage myself to move back to Fayette County to live in an abandoned coke oven, there are absolutely people in the hospital and research institute that, no matter what the day or time, can take me there.

On the other hand, if i want to see a phenomenal future, feel total optimism and get the adrenaline flowing, I can find people here to take me there, too.

Which one are you?

Don’t answer.  Walk up to the mirror and answer this question out loud to yourself.  "How are you doing today?" 

Okay, Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!

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Let me begin by putting all of my cards on the table. This is not meant to be a sour grapes rant. It’s intended to keep us focused on this short journey through time and space called life. It’s meant to remind us how much nicer it could be if we simply embraced The Golden Rule. No, not the one about "He who has the most gold rules."

As a birthday gift to my retired brother, my present to him was a trip to San Diego to see the Chargers vs.the Steelers. Please, no applause, it was partial payment for a lifetime of IOU’s.

During this four day journey into uncharted waters, we had an opportunity to observe literally thousands of people in every aspect of living. To begin to express the contrasts that we witnessed might be as difficult as differentiating between the management style of Curious George the Monkey compared to General George the Patton.

The one-for-all-and-all-for-myself mentality clearly won out in this climatic paradise known as San Diego. Rudeness, insensitivity and some deeply misplaced anger ruled the day at the game. Passion and sportsmanship were outweighed by alcohol, anger and toxic behavior.

In mixed company with children present, the screaming attendees in our section sounded more like x-rated rappers than passionate fans. Believe me, I’m no goody-two-shoes, but, seriously…it was somewhat NUTS. There were fights, near fights and taunting wishes for fights. There was a point at which, during our walk out of the stadium, we had a genuine feeling of "will we get out of here with our limbs intact?"…and THEY HAD WON THE GAME.

The purpose of this blog is not to bore you with sports information, it is to question the future of our galaxy. Will we fight and scream and kick ourselves into oblivion when there are clearly better choices? It’s like the current contrasts between North Korea and the Amish. What an amazing example they have both presented to us this past week.

It doesn’t have to all be about conservative or liberal politics, religious choices, or one sports team versus another. It can be about humanness. It can be about this journey together on this tiny little planet called Earth and about making that trip with dignity, understanding  and human consciousness.

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My very first day in hospital employment was as an administrator.  Granted, only one employee reported to me, but, nevertheless, my title, position and responsibilities all screamed out: white collar, exempt employee.

Administrator: one who administers, one who is "in charge of affairs," one who presides over the dispensation of something, one who looks after and tends to the needs of SOMEBODY.

Can leadership be learned?  Absolutely, yes, but only to a point.  First, you need to get the informational base needed to survive in the area you’re administrating.  Then you may work by assisting another leader.  You might run a smaller department or shop, and, in the process of learning, you discover situational ethics, the art of building cohesive support, accountability, et al.

There are many who believe that genes are imperative in this process, but is is my belief that genes alone won’t do it.  Drive, ambition, work ethic, sacrifice and experience help as well.

As a civilization, we tend to run in packs and continuously choose leaders to take us through each day.  Interestingly enough, the higher up you go as a leader, the less important specific subject knowledge usually becomes. The key, however, seems to be the ability for the leader to articulate a vision, to actually have his followers embrace that vision and to have trusted advisers who will be encouraged to be honest.

You can be given the tools, but it helps to have the spirit behind your efforts.  As former presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson said: "It’s hard to lead a cavalry charge if you think you look funny on a horse."  Self confidence is an important part of leadership.

Another wonderful quote that is key in the leadership business came from Mr. Stevenson’s rival, and the man who defeated him for the presidency of the United States, Dwight D. Eisenhower when he said:  "You do not lead by hitting people over the head – that’s assault, not leadership."

What has happened to leadership in the United States?  It’s been interesting to observe the evolution from liberal to neoconservative.  It has been frightening to absorb the complex bi-ethical embracing of a culture that worships movie, music, and athletic stars who are totally liberal while chastising and destroying anyone with political aspirations who has ever admitted to any slip from perceived perfection.  It became quite disconcerting to me when our country began to require our leaders to be cardboard cutouts in order to qualify for office.  We are human beings, and being led by someone who is not one is only a self-created vision bordering on the delusional.

We are taught to be forgiving, to accept ones brother with his human traits, and to understand that this is a very short journey that gives us a very finite number of years to make a difference in an otherwise confused environment.  As John Quincy Adams said on leadership:  "If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader."

That’s all I’m looking for. . . that’s what we should expect, to dream more, to learn more and to become more. . . to reach our potential to do good, to stop pain and war and suffering when possible, to move humanity even one more inch toward some type of sanity. 

I’m not sure why I wrote this . . . must have been the whole grain Cheerios.

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My childhood home was an hour south of Pittsburgh, one of the greatest steel producing centers in the industrialized world.  During those young years, my childhood was interrupted several times a year by adults who were attempting to help prepare us for the worst, the possibility of a nuclear holocaust.

We used to practice hiding under our desks at school and would go into the hallway and cover our heads to protect ourselves from the flying glass.  (If you ever saw the films from the true tests, those desks were not impervious to the Hydrogen Bomb, and the hallway would probably have become a collection of toothpicks, but it was all that we had.)

As a young paper boy, while walking home from my last customer, I can remember looking south toward Pittsburgh and wondering what the fireball and mushroom shaped cloud would look like when the Soviet Premier would finally become so frustrated with our democracy that he would launch the ultimate attack . . . on Pittsburgh.

Imagine my lack of surprise when I moved to Johnstown, PA and discovered that at least one of the Superintendents of a steel mill here had their own personal bomb shelter, or that The Greenbriar had  a special underground shelter for our U.S. Congress.

Thankfully, the need to follow through with this planning never manifested itself as a reality in my life.  My dad, however, was born around the 1918 flu epidemic, and his parents couldn’t get a doctor to come to the house because the doc was very busy.  That disaster did become a reality.

On the other hand, Y2K made plenty of my computer specialists friends a great deal of money.  Except for Cindy, a member of our Y2K team at the hospital, who accidentally leaned against a light switch at midnight, nothing of significance happened, anywhere in the world.

We can only pray that the current flu pandemic, the dirty bomb in New York Harbor and the premature death of our generation’s overweight kids will also not become reality.  We can hope that, like my hydrogen bomb preparations, our time will be invested in worrying about a future that never arrives.

Fortunately, I’ve been trained to worry. It’s been my history.  Most days, if i don’t have some serious degree of anguish, it’s probably either because I’ve slept in or was under some form of anesthesia for a medical examination.

Consequently, at my organization, we are working to protect you from whatever disaster lurks out there.  It’s our job to be prepared.  Steve, our internal co-coordinator for disasters, sent me this e-mail this morning:

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