A Man Made

By Dennis Papasan

Phone calls. We receive them on a seemingly constant basis. Most turn out to be forgettable and mundane. An unexpected call to a West Texas couple in 1962 was quite an exception though. It was a communication that would lead to adoption and change the course of lives for generations to come.
This is the story of one man's life from birth and adoption to marriage and the joys as well as challenges of raising a family. Dennis Papasan gives a firsthand narrative of the impact of friends and family as they help shape who we are. He depicts how our average lives are never really average.
Experience what growing up in small town America was like in the 1960's and 1970's. A tale that includes the beauty of adoption, the greatness of family, the importance of friends and how tragedy can be overcome by the grace of God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis Papasan
• Release date: Apr 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005280833

Book preview

Introduction

I have only begun to think about writing a book about myself and I have already come to two conclusions. The first is that the story of me has very little to do with me, yet everything to do with others. Others. They are the many others that enter our lives, either by accident or fate and, become a permanent part of us just as surely as if they are a strand of our DNA. They make us who we are. So, this book is truly about them and their impact. My other conclusion, or perhaps belief is a better word, is that every one of us is a book waiting to be written. Every single one of us is an interesting story. Captivating even, if just told by the right person. If written by the right author. Well, for better or for worse, I am the author on this one. There is only one other person in the world that stands a chance of knowing these facts and the emotions behind the facts. Yet, she does not fancy herself a writer (a misguided belief) and she is the one inspiring (pushing) me to do this. So, in her teacher lingo…. You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit. But I do hope you like what you get.

On every page that follows is a combination of facts and my recollections. In mathematical terms:

Facts + My Recollections = My Memories

You are welcome to fact-check me on anything I have included. That would mean you are extremely bored and that’s perfectly fine. But should you run across something that contradicts anything I have shared and then choose to confront me with it, my response will be reactionary. I’ll just cover my ears with my hands while singing La La La, I can’t hear you! It’s childish and annoying, yet still very effective. And protective. Because you see, these are MY memories. I want them to stay unchanged. Always. And once you have read them, in a sense, they will be your memories too. If you are reading this, there is a chance that you are actually one of the memories, which makes me smile as I write these words.

One last thing before we begin. Spoiler Alert: When you get to the end of the last page, you won’t see the words The End. This story is still going…..

Chapter 1

The Call

I suspect that life was easy and good

Nothing out of the ordinary that particular fall

But when the phone rang on that October day

In more ways than one, they answered the call

I love that our beginning is something we didn’t do. In fact, we are the weakest link in the chain of our own existence. We did nothing! It takes a man and a woman at the very least. Typically, a doctor is involved, with a nurse or two to help. I’m no different. I actually have a Birth Certificate just like you do. It lists all the basic facts of my birth. It states that I was born on October 2, 1962, in Rankin, Texas. It states that Bobie Lee Papasan was my father and Eddie Lou Papasan was my mother. It details all the essential facts and is signed by the appropriate people. Everything on this official document is true as far as I know. I cannot dispute it in the least nor would I ever attempt to. But, I have a second Birth Certificate with different information. I love that I do and I love the story behind it even though I don’t know the whole story. This alternate document shows my first name with a slightly different spelling by one letter and the last name is completely different. It lists a different mother and the space for the father is left blank. Otherwise, the details are the same on both certificates. They are both me. Sounds like a bit of a mystery and it is. I will dive into that mystery in a later chapter (yes that’s a teaser). But trust me, nothing was ever withheld from me. Quite the opposite. I was told the story as soon as I was old enough to understand a story and from day one it became my favorite tale. My ultimate bedtime story. The best! Here is the story as it was told to me.

When I was born in Rankin, my parents in Stanton, Texas received a call from Doctor Doc Gossett who had delivered me. He wanted to know if they would be interested in adopting this baby that had just been born. Even though they had not considered adoption, they said yes without hesitation. They drove the 73 miles from Stanton to Rankin to pick me up and brought me back home. They immediately took me to the elementary school that my 8-year-old brother, Randal attended. On the steps of that schoolhouse, he held me and just laughed in disbelief. My parents showed me off around our small town and everyone was shocked to see my mom with a baby when she had shown no signs of being pregnant.

This was recited to me so many times that it became mythical. Legend almost. Yet I’ve never doubted it. To this day, I have no reason to. Kudos to my parents for being so honest with me so early on. Some kids view adoption as a stigma. I viewed it as a badge of honor. I loved everything about it. It set me apart. I was different. I was chosen. To me, it was a beautiful beginning. For most of my life, I looked at it through my childlike lens and it was only later in life that I began to dissect it for the absolute perfect storm that it was. So many moving parts. I am more motivated than anyone to think about these events and I have given them more than a little thought. So many people involved in me being where I am. Such a study. I have studied and I want to share my thoughts. If this was a Broadway play, you would want a Playbill to know the characters involved. I would want that too. Let’s start with Doc Gossett.

James D. Gossett was a doctor that served West Texas. Specifically, Rankin and its surrounding areas. I learned as an adult that Doc Gossett became my mom’s gynecologist when my parents moved to Big Lake, Texas. My brother had been born in Abilene before that and now Doc Gossett was the one to give my mother the shocking news that her previous difficult delivery had left her unable to bear more children. She was devastated. I can only deduce that Doctor Gossett kept my parents in mind and called them when my unique situation presented itself. I use the word deduce because it never occurred to me to track down this mythical person and ask him questions. Maybe even thank him. In my favorite story, he apparently was an afterthought in my mind. Just a minor character. Doc Gossett. That’s what they called him. Was he even real? I never thought much about him. I do now. I now realize if not for his decision to make that call, so many lives would be different and even nonexistent. I assume I would be alive somewhere, but where? What would my wife be doing now? My children would have never been born which means their children, my grandchildren, would not be here. Nor would all the generations to come. The concept leaves me in awe. It turns out that Doctor Gossett was real. A few years ago, my dad gave me a stash of old pictures. Family photos. Hidden amongst these was a black and white Christmas card from the Gossett family. I suspect that it is from the year of my birth but I cannot verify this. It includes a picture of him, his wife, and 6 kids. Printed on thick card stock and looking as if it were printed yesterday. Mint condition. I kept this card out on our kitchen island for a year before my wife had the great idea of Googling his name. I invite you to do the same. Unfortunately, the first thing you will find is an obituary, because he passed away in 2006. But what a life he lived. To quote his obit, He delivered innumerable babies, and it is common knowledge that many of those first babies delivered in Rankin would see him deliver their grandchildren and even their great-grandchildren. It appears he was the doctor that every small town should have. He was Doc Graham from the movie Field of Dreams, except Doctor Gossett was not fictional. He was quite real. I don’t think his name will be coming up again in this book, so all I can say is rest in peace Doc Gossett. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I am sure that Rankin would have been a fine place to live, but I am grateful to call Stanton my first hometown. Stanton is the home of 3,000 friendly people and a few old soreheads. I know this because I experienced it and also because it is written on two giant billboards on Interstate 20 as you enter the town from the east and the west. My father was a Highway Patrolman for the Department of Public Safety in Stanton. In simple terms, his job was to patrol the highways around Stanton, controlling speed by handing out tickets and warnings to drivers who exceeded the speed limit. But, he was much more than that. In a small town, it is all hands on deck. He was asked to do many things to ensure that our community was a peaceful one. He was the perfect man for the job. He was a just man. As fair as they come. If you have ever seen The Andy Griffith Show, you will understand when I say that Bobie Papasan was my own personal Sheriff Andy Taylor and Stanton was my Mayberry. I loved that show. I lived it.

The year before I was born, the bank in Stanton was robbed. My father was asked to set up a roadblock as the thief attempted to escape, although no one knew which way he had gone. My dad chose the right intersection outside of town because the first car that approached was the criminal. The car came to a stop. My dad approached and as he neared the driver’s door, the robber pulled out a pistol but instead of using it on my dad, he used it on himself. He took his own life. My father was a local hero. Very deserving.

When I was 13 or so, I got to ride with him a couple of times while he was on duty. I can tell you that as I watched him in action, nothing I saw disappointed me in the least. In uniform, he was the same person that I knew him to be. He treated motorists with fairness and compassion. I believe he treated them the way he would want to be treated if the roles were reversed. Law enforcement as it should be. It will not be the last time he is mentioned in this book and I am elated to say that at the time of this writing, he is alive and well at 90 years of age. He is still that same person.

At the time of my birth, my mother was a bookkeeper for the bank. During my childhood, as we moved from town to town, she had the same job with a couple of different auto dealerships. I am convinced that the term bookkeeper is code for the person that does the actual accounting but does not get the title or the credit. I love that she had this job. As I look back now, I think it explains why she stressed to me the importance of math. Not words, art, or music. Numbers, numbers, numbers. She had me believing I was amazing at mathematics even before I was if in fact I ever was. Moms are experts at that. They subtly brainwash us and begin shaping us into who we will be almost immediately. She was a master at that and I would not have it any other way. Unfortunately, the other thing she did was spoil me. Maybe it was because I was adopted or maybe it was just because that is who she was. But make no mistake about it, she spoiled me. So, now my wife has to bear that burden. I’m sorry Tammira.

We all have our identities and one of her identities is that she could cook. An understatement. I already know what I am going to write and I am salivating. The woman could just flat-out cook! I am not talking about fancy dishes like chicken cordon bleu or even lasagna. I mean good ole country cooking. She would come home after church on Sunday, take a chicken apart piece by piece, and in no time, magically have a fried chicken meal ready that was heavenly. I won’t go any further because I have not had lunch yet and I am torturing myself. Just know that she had an amazing skillset in the kitchen. Unrivaled.

I wish I did not have to refer to her in the past tense. But I do. We lost her in 2006. She had been diagnosed with cancer and it had spread. It was terminal, but she should have had much more time. Years perhaps. But, she died of a heart attack which I believe was caused by medication chaos. It happened suddenly, but fortunately, I was able to be in her presence when she passed. I miss her tremendously, but it gives me comfort to know that she is a part of every one of these pages.

Knowing who our parents are and what they are all about is fun and important. But, it is even more intriguing to think about their past. Their roots. I obviously have no blood relation to my mom and dad, so I certainly don’t have a blood connection to my grandparents and beyond. That doesn’t matter. It still seems key to me. Plus, it is such an undeniable part of my childhood that I believe it is worth including.

My dad was raised in Lawn, Texas by Colden and Leona (Ona) Papasan. By the time I was born, Colden was no longer a farmer but was instead a rancher. He was a harsh man who seemed to be perpetually unhappy. When I see photos of people in the 1800’s that are not smiling as if that’s how they were told to pose for pictures, I think of him. He just was a stern person. I do not say this to disparage a man that has long since passed, but rather to defend my father. My dad is and has always been, a good man with a big heart. When the question of nature versus nurture comes up, I will have to put my dad on the nature side. He seems to be kind in spite of his raising. There probably is a term for someone that is the white sheep of their family but is mysteriously treated like an outcast. I believe that is him.

But I will give credit to Grandpa Papasan for one thing. One day at lunch, he saw me trying to get stubborn ketchup out of a glass ketchup bottle. I’m sure I was shaking it or maybe even pounding on the bottom of the bottle because that is what we did. He showed me that if I held the bottle in my right hand and tapped the neck of the bottle against the outstretched index finger of my left hand, then the ketchup would flow. It worked and I have used that trick ever since. But now, my ketchup normally comes from a plastic bottle and I just don’t think ketchup is nearly as thick as it was in the 1960s and ‘70s. Yes, I heard it. Hey, you kids get off my lawn!

Ona was a feisty, tough woman. A frontier woman in my opinion. Maybe one of those women that would have been just fine without a man. Ornery a bit. She said what was on her mind and didn’t mince words. Even as a child, I think I came to appreciate that somewhat. When those kinds of people tell you something good, you know it’s real. She was tall and lanky, so this is a good time to discuss the fact that I referred to her as Big Grandma. I did this because my mom’s mom was short. Under 5 feet easily. So, of course, she was Little Grandma. This is not what I called them to their face, yet they both knew the story and thought it was funny. The story is that I guess my simple mind needed a way to tell them apart. So, it was a point of reference, as in, if we were headed to Lawn…. Are we going to Big Grandma’s first or Little Grandma’s? Of course, the name of the house always takes the name of the grandmother as it is supposed to be. During my childhood, Big Grandma worked as a cook in the only restaurant in town. I can picture her now when we would walk into Taylors Cafe and she would see me through that little window opening in the wall that separated the kitchen from the counter. She would have a big smile. A smile. Maybe there was some nurturing there after all for my dad. I truly hope so.

Their ranch was a little south of town and I cannot conjure up many specific memories. But, there is one. Their house was about 100 yards from train tracks. My brother showed me that you could put a penny on the rail and after the train would run over it, the result would be amazing. It was. If you haven’t tried it, you should. But I recommend multiple pennies. They are not always easy to find once they flatten out and catch the breeze of the train cars.

My mom was also raised in Lawn. Her parents, my grandparents were Paul and Blantye Copeland. Paul was a hard-working, Godly man. A farmer. To me, he was PaPa (pronounced paw paw). If it was daylight, he was working, unless it was Sunday. The Lord’s day. If he was inside, he was probably sitting in his wooden rocking chair right inside the front door of their little house. It had an orange vinyl-covered cushion to sit on and an orange one tied to the back of it to lean against. I have no doubt that it was his version of an easy chair to sit in at the end of a long day. It was also perched right in front of a window air conditioner. A swamp cooler. Much needed if you have worked hard on a Taylor County humid, summer day. More than once, he and I walked down to the barn after an amazing supper. Along the way, he would pass gas (probably the reason for the walk) and he would holler, Tiger! His way of blaming a fart on his dog named Tiger. I laughed so hard every time! I was an easy laugh. I think he liked that. I will also credit him with a favorite saying. He would say, I’m built backwards. My nose runs and my feet smell. A classic even if only in my mind.

Little Grandma was an angel. She just was. The epitome of goodness. A Christian. And oh my, could she also cook?? I am blessed that she passed that skill on to her daughter. It’s tough for me to say, but some of her best country cooking happened at the break of dawn when I was trying to sleep 10 feet away on the pull-out bed from the couch. Everyone gathered for breakfast. I was a kid. I was annoyed. I want a do-over. This time I won’t be annoyed. I’ll bounce out of bed and soak in every second.

She taught me to play dominos on an old card table whose surface was worn by thousands of dominos being shuffled over it. Not any complicated game. Just dominos, where the goal was to have one side of your domino match the end of another domino at the end of a line of dominos that have been played. If you couldn’t play, then you had to draw from the pile of spare dominos that hadn’t been played or dealt. PaPa and Little Grandma called that pile The Boneyard. I don’t get to play dominos much anymore. But if I do, those extra dominos are still The Boneyard and I’m instantly in that tiny little den with them around that worn-out little card table. And just like PaPa, I’ll credit her with a phrase that comes to my mind often. When she had to scratch her nose, she’d say, My nose itches. Someone’s coming with a hole in their britches. I have no idea what that means but I love it.

I am in possession of two things from that house. Two icons from my childhood. One is a candy jar made of depression glass. It is called depression glass because it was produced during the depression era. It was colored and in the case of this jar, it has a pinkish tint. I could always count on one of two things being in there on a rotating basis of some kind. Either peppermints or Kraft caramels. The other thing I have is PaPa’s rocking chair minus the cushions. The candy jar is kept safely in a cupboard and I rarely sit in the chair. But, just having a piece of them here brings me joy.

Two things seem to have existed only on that farm and seemingly nowhere else in my world. Pomegranates and fireflies. They had a pomegranate tree right outside their back door. There might have even been two. I’ve never seen one anywhere else. What a beautiful, fun fruit to cut open and eat. A taste explosion, but those tiny little seeds you suck on make you earn every bit of taste you can get. I have seen fireflies a couple of other times in my life, but they seemed to constantly be on that farm on summer nights right by their house. Little Grandma would give me a Mason jar to catch them and keep them in. Not difficult since they are slow, sluggish insects. They were never alive the next morning. Bummer. Just now, I started to Google what makes fireflies glow so I would sound informed. I decided against it. Maybe it’s just enough to know that they glow and they are beautiful.

The population of Lawn has always hovered around 300. For a town