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My grandparents’ house, Despite the horrors I’ve written about in the story pinned to my profile

I have a lot of terrible memories that took place there but there are also beautiful memories. they had a comfortable warm and inviting home in the country and in the moments where I wasn’t being confronted with my family dysfunction I felt so normal. They called the bedroom my sister and I would stay in the princess room; it had two twin beds and a huge collection of VHS tapes, board games, and vintage children’s books. When I grew up my boyfriend and I got to stay in the one of the grownup rooms with en suite bathroom, pictured, which was a defining moment for me. I loved waking up before everybody, making coffee in the sun room, sitting there and reading the Dallas Morning News looking out into the garden. My grandfather sold the house before we had our falling-out and they’ve since passed so I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to. — I would also say my paternal grandfather's house, which sat on a huge tract of land with pecan and pomegranate trees which we would pick up off of the ground. An irrigation dam ran behind it. In the winter, I would stomp on the cracked dry earth to break it beneath my feet, and shatter the ice that would form in the bird bath. The walls were lined with my great grandmother’s pastel art from when she went to finishing school and my grandmother’s embroidery pieces. There was a wood paneled library with smoke-stained classic books, many of which I have with me today. My dad and his brother had a play room painted in primary color blue, yellow, and red, and my sister and I could play with all of their old toys and look at their old books. My grandmothers glass shoe and bell connection as well as her vanity set had all been left exactly as they were and I would admire them every time we visited. She died before I was born but I always felt a strong connection to her and I would love to have space to display her collections someday! And I adored my grandfather who had been so prickly with my father and his brother but was so sweet to me. He would always give me porcelain dolls he bought on QVC. his house smelled like rotten bananas because he would buy them and forget to eat them. He died when I was about six years old and I said why couldn’t it have been my other grandfather that died (lol). I miss him a lot and I think he would be proud of me! 🫶 — Oh and my mom‘s dead gay best friend Jackie’s house which he shared with his partner Aaron, a sculptor who was close friends with Cormac McCarthy. I learned everything about sophistication in decor from them and their house was my favorite place on earth. He would have a huge Christmas party every year and go BALLS TO THE WALL DECORATING; other professors from the university and artists would hobnob and I would eat inappropriately too many hors d’oeuvres (he would get all of his charcuterie and shrimp cocktail from COSTCO). His kitchen had black and white checker board floors with cherry red accents and Betty Boop decor. I miss him so much too!!!

@taterhole

Jul 18, 2024

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A selection of brief family portraits which are deeply meaningful to me at this critical juncture of my life

My paternal great-grandmother, Charlotte (Lottie for short)—whose husband Vernon came back from World War I as a cruel, shellshocked man incapable of providing for the family—forced to bear the weight of responsibility and open the first plant nursery in our hometown, resigned to her quiet strength, always tending to living things with care but never receiving that same treatment. My maternal grandmother, Barbara, a reserved and emotionally detached woman who matter-of-factly confessed to my mother in 1998 that she and my grandfather Billy had not had sex in years. I would eventually come to learn that he preferred the company of other men, and looked back on the time when I was 13 where I had attempted to help him search for a long-lost military friend in a new light. Barbara developed dementia and wasted away into a whisper, but the last time I saw her, flashes of anger would rise to the surface: telling me to throw Billy down the staircase; that she hopes he’ll drown in his iced tea. During that visit, we discovered that her antique bisque dolls from her childhood in Iowa had been carelessly tossed into the unfinished attic, exposed to the elements and left to decay—just like her. My mother, a woman I hated growing up until, to my horror, I came to understand exactly what made her into the monster she had been to me—like looking into the most humbling mirror. My father mocked her interests, dismissed her emotions, deprived her of affection, and poked and prodded her until she snapped. My father, who tearfully confessed to me late one night, several beers in, his accent slipping into its latent southern drawl as it did when he was drunk, that he regretted not staying with the mother of his first daughter, Layla—named after the Eric Clapton song, conceived during a meth bender when they were 19, leading to a shotgun wedding and a marriage that ended too soon—and had to watch from afar as she suffered in a marriage to a man who was “a square” and didn’t see her. My paternal grandfather, Herbert, who adored my grandmother Dorothea until her dying breath and kept her belongings and mementos all throughout the house like a mausoleum for about 20 years until he succeeded in drinking his way to joining her—her collections of antique bells and glass slippers, her embroideries, photos of her in Paris, her silver vanity set in the bedroom, her blank greeting cards and stationary, her cigarette-smoke-stained books in their library with notes stuffed into the pages and scribblings in the margins. My maternal great-grandmother Katherine, who was left by her first husband—a man who never treated Barbara as his child—and married her second husband, a patient, stoic, loving farmer. In her old age after his death she joined a biker gang, wore leather studded gloves, and developed a love for the thrill of casual shoplifting. My aunt Lisa, currently on her third marriage to a good ol’ boy NFL agent for the Cowboys and former A&M football player with a passionate love for Wienerschnitzel. Last I heard, he was trying to get his friend Jerry Jones in on buying a franchise with him because there are no locations close to his house but Jerry remained skeptical about its value as a joint business venture. My mother told me throughout my childhood that Lisa had ended a perfectly good marriage with her first husband to chase something new; that I was evil and selfish just like her. Lisa looks happier than ever.

@taterhole

Feb 28, 2025

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collecting old kodak cameras

“death must be so beautiful…to forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace” (the bell jar) my grandmother recently passed away; she left behind a house full of delicate treasures i intend to treat with much care. there are a few things in life so beautiful they hurt—for me, that would be the predicament of inheritance i find myself in. how do you begin to enjoy someone else’s house full of things, if the home is empty and void of life? what is this death but a negligable accident that permits unbroken continuity? i found this Kodak 2000 disc camera, alongside a mountain of clothes, while going through my grandmother’s treasures. these seemingly miscellaneous things she eventually grew to omit the value in—seeing as they had been tucked away at the back of her closet—now hold much value for me. they serve as reminders of all her existence and livelihood. the camera in itself is pretty useless in terms of functionality considering the fact that disc film is a discontinued still-photography film format, but the sentimental value behind it renders it’s worthiness as a collectors item [unless of course, someone knows where i can find kodacolor HR disc film 15 exp.]

@madhearts

Oct 20, 2024

Top Recs from @taterhole

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Never changing

My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌

@taterhole

Feb 23, 2025

34

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Finally Quitting the job that you hate

Schedule sent my resignation email for the morning, effective immediately ✅💅

@taterhole

Feb 27, 2025

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Rejecting the Commodification of the Self

I’ve been thinking about how much of social media is centered around curating our self-image. When selfies first became popular, they were dismissed as vain and vapid—a critique often rooted in misogyny—but now, the way we craft our online selves feels more like creating monuments. We try to signal our individuality, hoping to be seen and understood, but ironically, I think this widens the gap between how others perceive us and who we really are. Instead of fostering connection, it can invite projection and misinterpretation—preconceived notions, prefab labels, and stereotypes. Worse, individuality has become branded and commodified, reducing our identities to products for others to consume. On most platforms, validation often comes from how well you can curate and present your image—selfies, aesthetic branding, and lifestyle content tend to dominate. High engagement is tied to visibility, not necessarily depth or substance. But I think spaces like PI.FYI show that there’s another way: where connection is built on shared ideas, tastes, and interests rather than surface-level content. It’s refreshing to be part of a community that values thoughts over optics. By sharing so few images of myself, I’ve found that it gives others room to focus on my ideas and voice. When I do share an image, it feels intentional—something that contributes to the story I want to tell rather than defining it. Sharing less allows me to express who I am beyond appearance. For women, especially, sharing less can be a radical act in a world where the default is to objectify ourselves. It resists the pressure to center appearance, focusing instead on what truly matters: our thoughts, voices, and authenticity. I’ve posted a handful of pictures of myself in 2,500 posts because I care more about showing who I am than how I look. In trying to be seen, are we making it harder for others to truly know us? It’s a question worth considering.

@taterhole

Dec 27, 2024

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