John Adams is my favorite president for many reasons, plus he had an excellent taste in women. 

Specifically, he married Abigail Adams — the woman who could’ve been running the country while John wrote grumpy letters and tried not to get in fights with Thomas Jefferson.  

I like her a lot, too.

Abigail Adams was a powerhouse, a writer, a political thinker, and apparently a woman after my own heart. You see, tucked inside one of her many letters to her husband — written from her aunt’s house in Massachusetts — she describes a place that may appeal to just about anybody who enjoys having their own space.

“I have possession of my aunt’s chamber,” she writes, “in which you know is a very convenient pretty closet with a window… I have a pretty little desk or cabinet here where I write all my letters and keep my papers unmolested by anyone… I always had a fancy for a closet with a window which I could more peculiarly call my own.”

Translation: “John, I love you dearly, but I need a room with a door, a desk, and preferably no menfolk stomping in.”

Abigail was dreaming of her own private office before it was cool. Before Instagram, before IKEA, before anyone heard of a “She Shed.” She just wanted a space. A room of her own. A closet with a view and no interruptions.

I get it. Since retiring from teaching, I’ve tried to carve out a little office for myself. It’s not large. It doesn’t have a turret or a garden view, but it does have a door, a chair, and shelves. But when I sit down in there, with my books and laptop and coffee, it feels like stepping into a calmer dimension — one where no one needs help finding the remote. It reminds me of the moments when the last student stepped out of the classroom and my prep period began or the last kid cleared the hallway after dismissal.

When I read Abigail’s letter again, I started thinking: Why is it so universal, this craving for a personal space?

As kids, we instinctively created these places. They weren’t anything elaborate, but they were ours. I used to wedge myself behind the couch with a flashlight and a book, like some kind of literary raccoon. I claimed the bottom of my closet like it was my personal fortress of solitude. I sat in a tree, planning a tree house that I never got to build. 

At my grandparents’ house, we turned the corn crib into a clubhouse. For the uninitiated, a corn crib is exactly as glamorous as it sounds — part barn, part storage, all splinters. But when you’re 10 years old and armed with an old rug and a few old chairs, it’s as good as a castle tower.

My grandpa, in his retirement, took up woodworking and created his own spot a few yards from the house: a paneled woodshop in the barn, complete with radio, heater, and a very specific smell of sawdust and ingenuity.

And just last week, I visited a man with an outdoor “shed” that, frankly, could qualify as a second home. It had a fridge, a stove, a TV, a sink — basically everything you’d need to survive the zombie apocalypse and still host the Super Bowl.

It was a dirty place, sure. A working shed. The kind of place where real, greasy projects happen – not where things get “curated.” But it was wonderful. Cozy, cluttered, and clearly beloved. He was sipping coffee, smiling, and looked more content than most people in five-star resorts.

I didn’t ask, but I wondered: Had he always dreamed of a tree house, too? Or had he gone straight to the grown-up version — a tree house with a woodstove and TV, without the tree, actually.

Abigail Adams wanted a closet with a window. Jefferson’s granddaughters claimed an unfinished space next to the grand dome room at Monticello (I told you about this a few columns ago). Kids take over trees and corn cribs. Retired grandpas build their own version of the “she shed” to house power tools and two-by-fours.

And me? I just want a place with a door that shuts and some books, paper, and maybe my laptop.

Oh, and coffee in a thermal cup that stays hot for a while.

In a noisy, demanding world, a little peace and a good chair go a long way. So wherever your space is — tree house, shed, closet, barn, or just the passenger seat of your parked car during lunch hour — may it be yours.

And if someone tries to interrupt you, take a page from Abigail: shut the door, pick up your pen, and write a long letter to your spouse or significant other explaining the concept of boundaries.

It might not be as well received as it was when John Adams got the memo, but still.