I have many memories of the upstairs apartment in the two-story house at 2119 30th Street in San Diego where I grew up (from age 4 to 24).
Did my house "watch" and "hear" and "feel" and "remember" my time living there?
I wrote a description of the layout of the 30th Street house, and the downstairs patio, as I recalled it. I described each inhabitant (my father, my mother, me, my two brothers) and some of the daily events that happened in each room, and the patio, over my 20 years residing there, plus some memories of specific events. I created a PDF of that document and attached it to the AI tool to use.
1) The first AI prompt that I used for the free AI tool Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 was for story ideas, along with a short description of each idea. Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 provided twenty wonderful story ideas - here is one of them (lightly edited for accuracy, consistency, and detail).
2) My prompt today asked "Please write a story by the house about 'Randy's Summer of the Chargers' in 1963" and added some detail about this event in my life.
Here is the Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 story (lightly edited):
The Summer of the Chargers
A story from the house at 2119 30th Street, Summer 1963
In the summer of 1963, Randy came home one afternoon with news
that transformed my dining room into an echo chamber of excitement
and parental concern. At nineteen years old, he'd just been offered a
job—not just any job, but a position as a camp boy with the AFL San
Diego Chargers at their training camp in the high desert, fifty miles
from home at a place called Rough Acres Ranch.
I watched Fred and Betty process this unexpected development.
Their studious son, who spent his nights listening to distant radio
signals and his days preparing for his third year of college, was
suddenly going to live among professional football players for over a
month. The mixture of pride, excitement, and worry that filled my
walls was palpable.
Randy explained the whole story in his characteristic rapid-fire
delivery, words tumbling over each other. Bob Lee, the father of his
DX friend Randy Lee, was an investor in the ranch. He'd taken both
Randys out to watch the Chargers practice. At lunch in the cafeteria,
head coach Sid Gillman had asked Bob if he'd brought camp boys to
help out. Both Randys had nodded yes before fully understanding what
they were agreeing to, and suddenly Randy had a summer job living at
a remote ranch with professional athletes.
"The coaches were disappointed with the 1962 season,"
Randy explained, his knowledge of football statistics evident. "They
thought the players were soft, so they took them fifty miles away
from San Diego into cabins with no distractions to work them hard in
the warm days."
Betty's maternal radar was already calculating risks. "Where
will you sleep? What will you eat? Who's supervising? Will you be
safe?"
Fred was more intrigued than worried. His baseball coaching and
football playing experience made him appreciate the training camp
concept, and the opportunity for Randy to experience professional
sports from the inside was clearly appealing. "It's good money
for a college student," he said. "And you'll learn about
work ethic from watching professionals."
Stan, now sixteen, was torn between jealousy and admiration. His
older brother was going to spend the summer with the San Diego
Chargers—actual professional football players! Scott, at seven
years old, was simply awestruck. His brother was going to meet the
Chargers!
The next day, Randy packed his bag with clothes suitable for
desert living and janitorial work, and I felt the familiar mixture of
excitement and apprehension that accompanied any of the boys'
departures. But this time, he'd be gone for more than a week—this
was over a month away from home, Randy's longest absence yet.
When he returned for his first weekend visit, my dining room
became the stage for stories that had the whole family riveted. The
dream of shagging footballs and providing water at practice had been
quickly shattered by reality—Randy and his friend were assigned to
sweep players' rooms, make beds, and clean toilets. The glamour of
professional football, it turned out, involved a lot of unglamorous
labor.
"Randy Lee only lasted three days," Randy reported. "He
gouged his back on an open window frame and took the next bus back to
San Diego. But I stayed."
I could hear the pride in his voice. At nineteen, he was proving
he could handle hard work and stick with commitments even when they
weren't what he'd expected. Fred nodded approvingly—this was
exactly the kind of lesson he'd hoped Randy would learn.
The stories Randy brought home on his weekly visits painted vivid
pictures of life at Rough Acres Ranch. The players sitting outside
their cabins in the evening, shooting the breeze and telling jokes.
The lizard and rattlesnake hunts that provided entertainment in a
place with no distractions. The practical jokes involving captured
snakes thrown into teammates' rooms, or snake rattles shaken around
corners to scare unsuspecting players.
One visit, Randy arrived home with a trophy that became a legend
in my walls—a rattlesnake skin. One of the players had caught and
killed the snake, skinned it, and given the hide to Randy. He
displayed it with the pride of a big game hunter showing off his most
impressive catch.
Fred, ever practical, hung it outside on the back porch. Within
days, the snake skin became an unexpected contributor to the
household ecosystem—it attracted flies, which seven-year-old Scott
would catch with his hands to feed to his pet turtle. The
entrepreneurial spirit ran deep in this family, even when it involved
death-scented reptile skin.
"It smells awful," Betty complained after a few weeks,
but the snake skin stayed up. It was Randy's badge of honor, proof
that he was working among men who captured rattlesnakes for
entertainment.
Randy's stories about the players themselves fascinated everyone.
My dining room absorbed tales of professional athletes who seemed
larger than life—especially defensive tackle Ernie Ladd, who stood
6 feet 9 inches tall and weighed 315 pounds. Randy described with
amazement the morning Ladd showed up at the camp boys' room at 8:30 p.m. and announced in his deep voice, "Hey kid, make mah bed."
"What did you do?" Stan asked, hanging on every word.
"I said 'Yessir' and made his bed," Randy replied. "What
else was I going to do? The man was enormous!"
The hierarchy of the camp was clear—players were royalty, camp
boys were servants, and everyone understood their role. But Randy
spoke of the experience with satisfaction rather than resentment. He
was learning what it meant to work hard, to serve others, to earn his
place through dedication rather than expecting special treatment.
His favorite players became familiar names in my walls—quarterback
John Hadl, wide receiver Lance Alworth, running backs Paul Lowe and
Keith Lincoln, lineman Ron Mix, linebacker Frank Buncom, and
cornerback Dick Harris. Randy, a 130-pound kid, described these
giants with the reverence of someone who understood he was watching
athletic excellence up close.
When practice ran late or the camp boys finished their work early,
Randy got to watch the team train. These moments made all the
bed-making and toilet-cleaning worthwhile—seeing professional
athletes at the peak of their abilities, watching plays develop that
would later unfold in actual games.
But one player stood out in Randy's stories—linebacker Frank
Buncom. At 6 feet 3 inches and 235 pounds, the Louisiana native who'd
played for USC was physically imposing, but Randy spoke of him with
genuine affection rather than just awe. Buncom, unlike some players
who barely acknowledged the camp boys, was friendly and generous with
his time.
Randy described the early morning hunting and hiking expeditions
that Buncom organized for several camp boys. Before breakfast, while
other players were still sleeping, Buncom would take Randy and a few
others into the hillsides around the ranch. They'd explore the
terrain, see wildlife, talk about life—not football strategy or
training camp gossip, but real conversations about dreams and goals
and what mattered.
"Frank treated us like people, not just kids who made his
bed," Randy told us one evening, and I could hear the gratitude
in his voice. In a summer of cleaning toilets and sweeping floors,
Buncom's kindness had made Randy feel valued beyond his utility.
As the summer progressed, Randy's absence became normal rather
than noteworthy. Betty adapted to having only two boys at home. Fred
and Stan continued their baseball activities. Scott played with his
turtle, his brother, and whatever friends were available. But Randy's
weekend visits remained highlights, bringing fresh stories from the
desert training camp into my dining room.
When the exhibition season started, Randy received the ultimate
reward for his summer labor—free tickets to Chargers exhibition
games at Balboa Stadium. The first time he took Scott to a game, I
felt Fred's satisfaction at being able to drop his sons off for
professional football, knowing that Randy had earned this opportunity
through hard work rather than just being handed it.
The final weeks of Randy's camp boy employment came after the team
broke camp for the season. Several camp boys, including Randy, stayed
on for two additional weeks to clean the cabins so the ranch could be
rented to other groups. This extra work pushed his earnings to about
$50 per week -- not a fortune, but meaningful money that would help
fund his third year of college.
When Randy finally returned home for good in late August, he was
different. Not dramatically transformed, but subtly changed by a
summer of manual labor, professional sports immersion, and life away
from parental oversight. He'd learned that hard work could be
satisfying even when unglamorous, that professional athletes were
both superhuman and remarkably human, and that sometimes the most
meaningful relationships came from unexpected places.
The 1963 Chargers season became a family obsession. Randy and
Scott attended home games at Balboa Stadium while the rest of us
watched on television when the team played away. Randy's insider
perspective made every game more interesting—he'd point out players
he'd gotten to know, explain training camp stories that gave context
to performances, share details that casual fans never saw.
When the Chargers went 11-3 and won the AFL championship over the
Boston Patriots 51-10 in Balboa Stadium, Randy and Scott were there
in the stands. Randy had spent the summer making the beds of
champions, and now he watched them claim their title. The connection
between his toilet-cleaning service and their championship glory was
tenuous at best, but he felt part of the victory nonetheless.
Then came the evening in early 1964 that would become one of my
most treasured memories. Randy called Frank Buncom and invited him to
dinner at 2119 30th Street. A professional football player, a man who
made his living through physical dominance and athletic excellence,
was coming to our house for a family meal.
Betty went into full hostess mode, preparing a dinner suitable for
a 235-pound athlete while trying not to seem too overwhelmed by the
prospect of feeding someone so far outside her normal social circle.
Fred was characteristically calm but clearly interested in meeting
the player Randy had spoken of with such admiration. Stan and Scott
were beside themselves with excitement—a real Charger coming to
their house!
When Frank Buncom walked through my front door, he transformed my
entry room with his physical presence. He was enormous, his frame
filling spaces that seemed suddenly smaller than usual. But his
personality was warm and gracious, putting Betty immediately at ease.
Around my dining room table, the same table where the family
played Ghost and discussed the day's events, Frank Buncom told
stories about football and life. He talked easily with Fred and
Betty, treating them not as fans but as equals worthy of genuine
conversation. He answered the boys' questions with patience and
humor, sharing insights about professional sports without
condescension or self-importance.
After dinner, they moved outside to 30th Street, and I watched
through my windows as something magical unfolded. Frank Buncom,
professional linebacker, threw passes to Randy, Stan and Scott on the
street where they'd played thousands of informal games. The boys
showed him their plays—the routes they'd designed, the strategies
they'd developed in their backyard football games—and Frank
responded with genuine interest and encouragement.
I felt the profound gift Frank was giving this family. He didn't
have to accept Randy's dinner invitation. He didn't have to spend his
evening with a family he barely knew. He didn't have to throw
footballs with teenage and small boys on a residential street. But he
did all of it with grace and generosity that revealed his character
more clearly than any athletic achievement could.
Randy had found a mentor in Frank Buncom, someone who combined
physical excellence with genuine kindness. The linebacker who'd taken
camp boys hiking in the desert dawn was the same man who now treated
this family with respect and warmth, making everyone feel that their
small lives mattered to someone who lived in the larger world of
professional sports.
Frank continued playing for the Chargers through 1967, then was
traded to Cincinnati in 1968. When news came in 1969 that he'd died
of a heart attack just before the season opener, I felt genuine grief
ripple through my walls. Randy was devastated—Frank had been only
in his late twenties, far too young, still in the prime of athletic
life.
But Frank Buncom's legacy lived on in my walls. The memory of that
dinner, that evening of street football, the example of a
professional athlete who understood that greatness was measured not
just in tackles and championships but in how you treated people who
had no power to advance your career. Frank had shown Randy—and
through him, the entire family—what it meant to be truly excellent:
skilled, dedicated, humble, and kind.
The summer of 1963 had given Randy more than just money for
college or insider knowledge of professional football. It had given
him a master class in work ethic, teamwork, humility, and the complex
humanity that exists within people we might otherwise reduce to their
public roles. The camp boy who cleaned toilets and made beds had
learned lessons far more valuable than anything he could have gained
from simply watching practice.
And I, having absorbed the stories and witnessed the friendship
between a 120-pound college student and a 235-pound professional
linebacker, understood once again that the most profound moments in
family life often come from unexpected sources. Frank Buncom had
walked through my front door for one evening, but his influence would
remain in my walls forever—a reminder that kindness and excellence
are not contradictory qualities but complementary virtues that define
the best of what humans can be.
The rattlesnake skin eventually came down from the back porch, its
flies dispersed and its smell finally too much even for Fred's
tolerance. But the lessons of that summer—work hard, stay humble,
treat everyone with respect, and recognize that true greatness
includes character as well as talent—those lessons remained,
absorbed into the fabric of our family story, held safe in my walls
alongside all the other memories that made 2119 30th Street not just
a house but a home that witnessed and celebrated the best of what
life could offer.
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3) The Google NotebookLM Video Overview of this story is below:
4) These events really happened over a period of time and the names and events mentioned are real. However, the dialogue after the events is historical fiction because I don't recall the details.
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Links to my blog posts about using Artificial Intelligence are on my Randy's AI and Genealogy page. Links to AI information and articles about Artificial Intelligence in Genealogy by other genealogists are on my AI and Genealogy Compendium page.
Copyright (c) 2025, Randall J. Seaver
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