Most homes built in the early to mid-1900s have a small shelf built into the wall in the kitchen or hallway. If you live in an old house, this may be the case. If you didn’t think much of this, you might have asked yourself why it was there. Yes, there was a reason for putting it there!
A phone niche is what that small shelf is called. People used landlines to talk to each other before cellphones. That seems like a very long time ago now. A lot of homes were built with just one space for the phone. A lot of them had a small shelf or drawer above or below the phone where you could put address or phone books. It seems so old-fashioned to even think about an address book these days!
Most people no longer have landlines and only use cellphones these days. But you can use this phone niche in different ways if your home has one! For decoration, you could buy an old phone and put it there. If you want, you could even use it. It’s big enough to hold books or other home decor items. You could also put a bunch of small plants in pots in the niche. There are many choices, and it’s up to you!
While I love how convenient new homes are, I also love how old homes have little details that make them unique. The house we live in is very old, so old that the idea of a phone niche was a long time away. Does your house have a place for the phone? If so, I’m very envious!
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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