“They won’t mind. You’ve done some tribal good, Smiley. That matters more.”

Here goes. My name is Elizabeth Ann Everett Stuart, named after my maternal grandmother Elizabeth Casey, of the Albany, New York brewery Caseys. I was born in Monroe, Michigan, May 19, 1859. Monroe’s chief claim to fame is as the home of George Armstrong Custer, late – very late – of the Seventh Cavalry. My daughter Millie says that books about Custer sell well, but I have only a little to say about him in this account, and none of it flattering. I trust you are not disappointed.

The Civil War broke out in 1861, when I was not quite two years old. Father volunteered, of course. He never sought active combat, but he served in a Michigan volunteer regiment as a supply officer and eventually regimental quartermaster. He attained the rank of major before Appomattox, so I assume he was reasonably proficient.

Duncan, who is – rightfully so – of a more cynical turn of mind than I am, insists that Father’s rank was more likely due to his extortionist capabilities. In view of Father’s subsequent career, I suspect this could be so.

My father made a number of important connections during the late conflict, his most fortuitous with General Grenville Dodge of the Union Army. After the Civil War ended, Dodge became chief engineer of the long-proposed transcontinental railroad. By the time the dust settled at Promontory Summit in 1869, Father found himself treasurer of the Union Pacific Railroad. At the age of ten, I found myself in Omaha, Nebraska, UP headquarters.

We lived in a three-story brick house on McDermott Street. It used to be in the best part of town, but as Omaha has grown, the neighborhood has begun its decline. Many of the large homes have been cut up into apartments for the less fortunate. (I could state that I was one of the less fortunate even when the Everett house was still a mansion, but why quibble?)

Our house is no longer standing. I was traveling through Omaha five years ago on one of my lobbying trips to Washington, D.C., when I was informed that several of the houses on McDermott Street were being torn down to make way for a Catholic church (Italians inhabit the neighborhood now).

I woke early the next morning, long before my train was due for departure, and walked to McDermott Street. I arrived in time to watch my childhood home under demolition.

The workmen had pulled down the back part of the house, scattering bricks everywhere. Before I even realized what I was doing, I picked up a brick and let it fly at one of the front windows. The glass shattered with a most satisfying tinkle; it was such fun that I did it again.

I would have thrown a third brick, and probably could have obliterated the stained-glass cornucopia etched in the front door, but a constable chanced along. He told me to mind my manners or he would run me in. I walked away, laughing to myself. Not everyone has a chance to fulfill a childhood dream.