‘You never caused us any trouble,’ they said

My mother said a long time ago that I never caused them (my parents) any trouble. She even wrote on the parental permission slip when I signed into the dorm, "She never caused us any trouble, so she can leave the campus on weekends or do whatever she wants."

When my father passed away in 1970, his obituary, not written by my mother, read, "Daughter, Pamella, at home." She took offense at this because I was really off to college at the time. It did sound kind of self-limiting being at home at 22, even though I was away at school. I never intended to be "at home" after college – ever.

This was mostly due to the presence of an old maid cousin in our family. Louise was something like a character out of Truman Capote's short stories, "Other Voices, Other Rooms" – a genteel old maid cousin who resided in The Aunt Hill in Laurel, the home of my Queen Victoria-like paternal grandmother, Julia Bounds, and her sisters, who lived there in their later years.

It was a duplex house which was a gift from their well-heeled ancestor Mary Carpenter (the Laurel library is named after her), who was a governess at Irenee du Pont's Granogue estate in Montchanin, Delaware. There she met and married Walter S. Carpenter Jr., who eventually became both president and chairman of the DuPont Company.

Family lore went on and on about Mary Carpenter, and she did provide money and college tuition for all of her aunts' and uncles' children, including my father, who attended Duke University. Anyway, my paternal grandmother and her sisters, all early widows, resided in the duplex house in Laurel. Another sister and her husband lived in the house next door. It was in a valley in downtown Laurel, but we called it "The Aunt Hill" because of all the aunts who lived there.

Louise was the daughter of the aged married couple, the Tottens, who lived in the house they bought there. She was a genteel old maid with a powdered-perfect complexion that had never been kissed by the sun. Disappointed in love, she had returned home and taken to her bed. Once a lab technician, she never worked again, but put up with a life of ennui by tolerating the kidding of other relatives.

She followed the advice of her doctor, my grandfather Edward Fowler, by chewing all of her food 99 times, and never exerted herself even by opening or closing bureau drawers. They all just stayed open. I used to stiffen up upon visiting The Aunt Hill. Every time they came into the room, I had to stand up. One visiting cousin said, "Must I stand up and kiss every old lady who smells of talcum powder?"

They were very aristocratic, but in spite of their fixation on manners, they would make thoughtless comments and criticisms. They thought my mother was crazy! They used salt cellars with tiny spoons, and butter knives, and served Maryland beaten biscuits, tomato aspic, spiced peaches and Indian pudding, all archaic recipes worthy of a menu on the Titanic. They even gave my mother a sterling silver butter knife for Christmas one year to teach her "Laurel manners," which caused an uproar.

Christmas morning was like the Truman Capote holiday in his "A Christmas Memory." A dour group of old maids would show up. I'd have to take turns opening gifts with them and usually got a regift. Then my mother would cook a huge breakfast, cracking two dozen eggs to scramble, followed by cracking up herself!

Fortunately for Louise, my mother took her in for a while after my father died. She taught her how to dress and took her places, and Louise became more assertive. A year later she went to a nice retirement home, The Manor House, in Seaford, met an elderly PhD and married for the first time at 80. My father would have never believed it!

No, my mother taught me to go out into the world, no matter what. And yes, I finally became something of a rebel, causing "good trouble" by stirring things up. I wanted to create art and writing to make people think!