Denyse Allen created custom AI prompts to help us focus on specific topics in Show up to Thanksgiving with something only you can bring (and its not a pie) and Ready to do deeper research on your ancestor's Thanksgiving? on her Chronicle Makers blog. Thank you, Denyse!
I used those prompts to help me and inspire me, and I had the bright idea of using my AI assistant Claude to write a Thanksgiving story about my Carringer family in 1920. That was a special year because my grandparents had married two years before, and my mother was born one year before.
1) Here is a Carringer family photograph that might have been taken at Thanksgiving or Christmas time in 1920 (colorized by MyHeritage):
1) My prompt for this story was: "Please describe the scene on Thanksgiving in 1920 (25 November 1920, 87 F temperature) in the Henry Austin Carringer home at 2105 30th Street in San Diego, California. The characters are: Austin Carringer (age 67, working at Rockwell Field on North Island), Della Carringer (age 58, Austin's wife), Lyle Carringer (age 29, son of Austin and Della, an auditor at Marston's Department store), Emily Carringer (age 21, Lyle's wife), Betty Carringer (age 16 months, Lyle and Emily's daughter), Georgianna Auble (age 52, Emily's widowed mother), Abbie Smith (age 76, Della's widowed mother), and Edgar Carringer (age 68, Austin's brother). They have gathered together for a Thanksgiving feast prepared by the women - describe the food and the setting in the dining room of the home. Create conversation about the family members, the homes, the weather, etc., and describe what they each were thankful for."
Here is the story by Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 (lightly edited for accuracy and consistency):
Thanksgiving at the Carringer Home
November 25, 1920
The morning sun beat down on the corner of 30th and Hawthorn with unseasonable intensity, pushing the mercury to a startling 87 degrees by late morning. Inside the Carringer home at 2105 30th Street, the dining room windows stood open wide, allowing whatever slight breeze might stir to circulate through the rooms where four generations had gathered for Thanksgiving.
The dining room table, handcrafted by Austin himself from beautiful California walnut, had been extended to its full length to accommodate eight adults and one high chair. Della's good linen tablecloth, carefully ironed that morning despite the heat, covered the rich wood, and her best china—saved for special occasions—gleamed in the afternoon light. At the center of the table, a crystal vase held roses from the garden, their petals drooping slightly in the warmth.
The kitchen had been a hive of activity since before dawn. Della, at sixty-eight, had been up first, stoking the wood stove despite knowing the heat it would add to an already warm day. Emily, grateful for her mother-in-law's experience, had arrived at eight o'clock with baby Betty on her hip, ready to help. Georgianna Auble, Emily's mother, had followed shortly after, bringing her famous sweet potato casserole already prepared and ready for the oven. Even Abbie Smith, Della's seventy-six-year-old mother, had insisted on contributing, spending the previous day making her special cranberry relish.
"I don't remember a Thanksgiving this warm," Della said, fanning herself with a folded newspaper as she checked the turkey's progress. The bird, a magnificent twenty-pound tom, sizzled in the oven, filling the house with the rich aroma of roasting meat, sage, and onion.
"At least we won't need to keep the fire going all day to stay warm," Emily replied, carefully mashing potatoes in a large ceramic bowl. At twenty-one, she was still learning the rhythms of holiday cooking, grateful for the guidance of her mother and mother-in-law.
Georgianna smiled from her position at the counter, where she was preparing green beans harvested from Austin's garden just that morning. "In Ontario, where I grew up, we'd have snow by now. But I'll take California sunshine over frozen fingers any day."
By two o'clock, the feast was ready, and the family began to gather. Austin arrived home from his morning work in the garden, his shirt damp with perspiration but his face bright with anticipation. He had insisted on completing some pruning before the meal, unwilling to let even Thanksgiving interrupt his care of the fruit trees.
Edgar Carringer, Austin's sixty-eight-year-old brother, had taken the bus and trolley from his home in Pacific Beach, and brought a bottle of his homemade grape wine. "Brother," he greeted Austin with a firm handshake, "I see you've been working. Can't you rest even on Thanksgiving?"
"The trees don't know it's a holiday, Edgar," Austin replied with a grin. "Besides, I've been resting plenty. Been at Rockwell Field three days this week instead of six. That's practically a vacation."
Lyle arrived last, having stopped by the department store to ensure everything was secured for the long weekend. At twenty-nine, he cut a professional figure in his suit, though he quickly loosened his collar in the heat. "Mother, it smells wonderful," he said, kissing Della's cheek before swooping down to lift baby Betty from her blanket on the floor.
"Papa!" Betty squealed, her chubby arms reaching for him. At sixteen months, she was just beginning to speak in recognizable words, and her delight at her father's arrival was evident.
"Let's get you in your chair, little one," Lyle said, settling her into the high chair that Austin had crafted specifically for his granddaughter, complete with a removable tray and carefully sanded edges.
As the family took their seats, Austin stood at the head of the table, surveying the gathered assembly. To his right sat Della, still flushed from her hours over the stove, her silver hair neatly pinned but with a few tendrils escaping in the heat. Beside her, Abbie Smith sat with quiet dignity, her aged hands folded in her lap. Across from them, Edgar occupied the place of honor as Austin's only sibling, with Georgianna beside him.
At the far end of the table, Lyle and Emily flanked Betty's high chair, ready to assist their daughter through the meal. The young couple exchanged glances, their happiness evident in the way they leaned slightly toward each other.
"Before we begin," Austin said, his voice carrying the authority of the family patriarch, "let us give thanks for this abundance and for the family gathered here today."
Heads bowed around the table as Austin offered a simple prayer, thanking the Earth for its’ bounty, for health, prosperity, and the blessing of family. When he finished, a chorus of "Amen" circled the table.
The meal began with the careful choreography of passing dishes. The turkey, golden and perfectly roasted, took pride of place on a large platter. Austin wielded the carving knife with the precision of his carpentry work, cutting neat slices of white and dark meat. Around it orbited bowls and platters: Emily's creamy mashed potatoes crowned with a pool of melting butter, Della's sage and onion dressing made with bread she had baked herself, Georgianna's sweet potato casserole topped with pecans and brown sugar, green beans glistening with butter, corn pudding rich with cream and eggs, Abbie's crimson cranberry relish, and a boat of thick gravy made from the turkey drippings.
"Pass your plate, Abbie," Austin said, serving his mother-in-law first, as was proper. Soon plates were being passed, filled, and returned, the table alive with the clink of silverware and satisfied murmurs.
"Della, this dressing is exceptional," Edgar said after his first bite. "You haven't lost your touch."
"Thank you, Edgar. I used herbs from our own garden—Austin's been coaxing them along beautifully."
"Speaking of the garden," Georgianna interjected, "I've never seen tomatoes as fine as yours, Austin. What's your secret?"
Austin chuckled, cutting into his turkey. "No secret, really. Just good soil, plenty of water, and talking to them now and then. I tell them they'd better produce if they want to stay in my garden."
Laughter rippled around the table. Little Betty, her face already smeared with mashed potatoes, banged her spoon against her tray in delight at the sound.
"And how is work at the Field, Austin?" Edgar asked, genuinely curious about his brother's unusual career change. "Not many men our age would take on such work."
Austin's eyes lit up as they always did when discussing his work with aircraft. "It's remarkable, Edgar. Truly remarkable. Just this week, we repaired a JN-4 that had a rough landing. The wing fabric was torn, several ribs damaged. But we had her airworthy again in three days. These machines—they're the future, I'm certain of it."
"I worry about you working with those dangerous contraptions," Abbie said, her elderly voice querulous with concern. "All that height and speed."
"Now, Mother," Della soothed, "Austin works on them on the ground. He's not flying them."
"Although I wouldn't mind trying it someday," Austin added with a mischievous glint.
"Austin Carringer, don't you dare!" Della exclaimed, though she was smiling. After thirty-three years of marriage, she knew her husband's adventurous spirit.
Lyle, eager to change the subject before his mother truly began to worry, turned to his father. "Tell us about the propeller you've been working on. The experimental one."
Austin set down his fork, animated. "Ah, yes. It's a beauty—over eight feet long, carved from a single piece of laminated wood. We're testing different shapes to see which provides the best thrust with the least drag. The mathematics behind it is fascinating."
"Mathematics and woodworking combined," Edgar mused. "That's always been your strength, Austin. Seeing how things fit together."
"Much like building a family," Georgianna observed quietly, glancing around the table. "Each person has their place, their purpose."
A comfortable silence fell as everyone continued eating, the only sounds the scrape of forks on china and Betty's contented babbling as she gummed a piece of soft roll.
"Emily," Abbie spoke up, "your mother tells me you've been quite busy with church activities."
Emily nodded, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. "Yes, Grandmother Abbie. The ladies' auxiliary is collecting clothing for families in need. With so many men returning from the war and struggling to find work, there's much to be done."
"That's good work," Della approved. "We must help our neighbors where we can."
"Lyle has been contributing from his salary at Marston's," Emily added, pride evident in her voice. "Mr. Marston himself commended the employees who participated in the clothing drive."
"Marston's is fortunate to have you, son," Austin said. "You've made something of yourself there."
Lyle flushed with pleasure at his father's praise. "Thank you, Father. I'm hoping for a promotion to senior auditor next year. Mr. Patterson has hinted as much."
"That would be wonderful!" Della exclaimed. "Oh, Lyle, your grandfather would have been so proud."
The mention of absent family members brought a momentary shadow to the gathering. Edgar cleared his throat. "We've lost some this year. Your brother Davie, Della—that was a hard blow."
Della's eyes misted. "Yes. September seems so recent, yet so long ago. He was only sixty-five. Too young."
Abbie reached over to pat her daughter's hand. "The Lord takes us when our work here is done, dear. Davie lived a good life."
Austin raised his glass of water. "To those no longer with us. May their memory be a blessing."
The family raised their glasses in solemn toast.
As the main course wound down, the conversation turned lighter. Edgar regaled them with stories of his early days in San Diego, memories that Austin corrected or embellished, the two brothers falling into the familiar pattern of lifelong companionship.
"Do you remember," Edgar said, laughing, "when we first arrived and you tried to convince me that oranges grew on bushes?"
"I never said that!" Austin protested, but he was grinning.
"You most certainly did. You said they grew on bushes like berries, and I believed you for a full week before someone set me straight."
"Well, you were always gullible, brother."
The table erupted in laughter. Even baby Betty seemed to sense the joy, clapping her potato-smeared hands together.
When the plates were finally cleared, Della and Emily disappeared into the kitchen, returning with the desserts: a pumpkin pie made from pumpkins Austin had grown himself, an apple pie with a lattice crust, and a bowl of whipped cream.
"I couldn't choose just one," Della admitted. "So I made both."
"A wise decision," Edgar declared, eyeing both pies with appreciation.
As slices of pie were served, Austin stood once more. "Before we finish this fine meal, I'd like each of us to share something we're thankful for this year. Della, will you start?"
Della looked around the table, her eyes settling on each beloved face. "I'm thankful for this family gathered here today. For my health and Austin's, which allows us to work and enjoy our home. For our son who has built a good life for himself and given us a beautiful granddaughter. And for this beautiful weather, even if it is a bit too warm for November."
Everyone chuckled at the last addition.
"I'm thankful for second chances," Austin said. "For the opportunity to learn new skills at my age, to work with young men who could be my grandsons, and to contribute to something as exciting as aviation. And for my Della, who has supported every adventure I've dragged her into for thirty-three years."
Della reached over to squeeze his hand.
Emily spoke next, her voice soft but clear. "I'm thankful for this family who welcomed me so warmly. For my mother's health and presence in Betty's life. For Lyle and the life we're building together. And for learning to make Thanksgiving dinner without burning anything."
More laughter, warm and accepting.
Lyle lifted Betty from her high chair, holding her on his lap. "I'm thankful for this little one, who's brought more joy into our lives than I knew was possible. For my position at Marston's, which allows me to provide for my family. For parents who taught me the value of hard work and integrity. And for having everyone I love gathered under one roof."
Georgianna dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. "I'm grateful to be included in this celebration, to see my daughter so happy, and to watch my granddaughter grow. I'm thankful for the move to California, which has given me sunshine and family close by. And for new friendships and the kindness of my daughter's in-laws."
Abbie's voice wavered slightly with age, but her words were clear. "I'm thankful for each day the Lord grants me, for the blessing of seeing my daughter happy and prosperous, for meeting my great-granddaughter, and for the opportunity to contribute to this meal, even if it's just cranberry relish."
"Your cranberry relish is the best part of the meal, Mother," Della insisted.
Edgar, the last to speak, looked at his brother with affection. "I'm thankful for family -- both the one we were born into and the one we choose. For this meal, this fellowship, and for the blessing of living in a place where we can grow our own food and enjoy weather like this in November. And for the good fortune of having a brother foolish enough to start a new career at sixty-seven, keeping us all young with his adventures."
Austin laughed heartily. "Foolish or wise, time will tell!"
As the afternoon wore on and the pie plates were emptied, the family lingered at the table, unwilling to break the spell of togetherness. Betty had fallen asleep in her father's arms, her little head resting on his shoulder. The heat of the day was beginning to wane as the sun moved lower in the sky, and a genuine breeze finally began to stir the curtains.
"Della, you and Emily must sit," Georgianna insisted. "Abbie and I will handle the dishes."
"Absolutely not," Della protested. "You're both guests."
"We're family," Abbie corrected gently. "And family helps."
In the end, all the women worked together, carrying dishes to the kitchen while the men retired to the front porch where it was cooler. Austin and Edgar settled into rocking chairs, continuing their reminiscences while Lyle stood at the railing, gently swaying with the sleeping Betty.
From the kitchen came the sounds of running water, the clink of dishes, and occasional laughter. The three generations of women worked in comfortable rhythm, washing, drying, and putting away the remnants of the feast.
As the sun began to set, painting the San Diego sky in shades of orange and pink, the family gradually prepared to part. Edgar was the first to leave, embracing his brother warmly. "Same time next year?" he asked.
"Earth willing," Austin replied.
Emily wrapped the sleeping Betty in a light blanket, and she, Lyle and Georgianna prepared for the short walk to their nearby residence. Abbie retired to her room in the home, and Edgar went upstairs to stay overnight.
"Thank you, Mother," Lyle said, kissing Della's cheek. "For everything. This was perfect."
"Come by tomorrow," Della urged. "There are plenty of leftovers."
"We will," Emily promised.
Finally, Austin and Della stood alone in their dining room, surveying the now-empty table, the chairs pushed back, the signs of a day well spent.
"Another Thanksgiving," Della said softly, leaning against her husband.
"And a good one," Austin agreed, his arm around her waist. "Even if it was hot as blazes."
"The heat didn't matter," Della said. "What matters is that we're all healthy, all together, all blessed."
"Amen to that," Austin said, and together they moved to the kitchen to finish the last of the cleanup, partners in all things as they had been for thirty-three years, as they would continue to be for many more to come.
Outside, the unusually warm November evening settled over San Diego, and in the Carringer home, the echo of laughter and love lingered long after the last dish had been put away.
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2) I can't resist asking Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 to create a poem about this story. Here it is:
Thanksgiving, 1920 For the Carringer Family
On the corner where Hawthorn meets Thirtieth Street,
Where Austin's own hands built a home strong and neat,
November sun blazed at eighty-seven degrees,
While curtains danced gently in warm autumn breeze.
Four generations gathered round the walnut table,
Each bringing to dinner what love made them able --
Della's sage dressing, Abbie's cranberry bright,
Georgianna's sweet potatoes, golden and light.
Austin at sixty-seven, with sawdust still on his hands,
From Rockwell Field's hangars where the future expands,
Working on propellers and fabric-winged dreams,
Teaching young men about wood joints and seams.
Edgar, his brother, with wine from his vine,
Lyle in his pressed suit from Marston's fine line,
Emily, young mother with flour on her sleeve,
And baby Betty laughing, too young to conceive
That this ordinary moment, this warm afternoon,
With turkey and laughter and grandmother's tune,
Would echo through decades, would shimmer and stay,
A treasure preserved from that Thanksgiving Day.
Abbie at seventy-six, her hands gnarled but sure,
Grateful for family, for love strong and pure,
Georgianna, the widow, who found sunshine here,
In California's embrace, with her daughter so near.
They spoke of lost Davie, gone too soon that year,
They toasted the absent with wine, but not beer,
They told the old stories of oranges on bushes,
Of surreys packed full, of pioneer rushes.
And when Austin stood up and asked them to share
What blessings they counted, what answered their prayer,
Each voice round the table rang honest and true --
Second chances, new family, small Betty's first "Dada" breaking through.
The dishes were cleared by the women as one,
The men rocked on porches as day's work was done,
And baby Betty slept sound in her father's strong arms,
Safe in the circle of familial charms.
The heat of the day gave way to the night,
The San Diego sky turned from gold into twilight,
And Austin and Della, when all had departed,
Stood hand in hand, grateful and warm-hearted.
For what is Thanksgiving if not this, if not here --
The gathering of those we hold precious and dear,
The sharing of bounty from garden and store,
The blessing of having, the grace to want more
Of laughter and stories, of pie à la mode,
Of lightening together life's heaviest load,
Of roots growing deeper in California clay,
Of love that endures beyond one single day?
So here's to the Carringers, gathered in grace,
To each cherished soul in that warm dining space,
To Thanksgiving of nineteen hundred and twenty,
When health, love, and family seemed blessing aplenty.
And here's to the truth that still rings clear and bright --
That ordinary moments, when held in love's light,
Become something precious, something holy, something true,
A feast that sustains us our whole lifetime through.
3) The Google NotebookLM video about this story is below:
4) This story is, of course, historical fiction with real persons and created dialogue. It's a traditional view, even sappy and positive, but I think it's realistic. It might have been this way in 1920. The first time I read the story (heck, every time!), my eyes watered and I knew I had to share this on Thanksgiving Day. Claude has written a number of stories about this family, and remembers many details about the personalities and events in the lives of these ancestors of mine.
Some readers may note that Austin prays to the Earth - he and Della renounced belief in God in 1890 after the devastating loss of their first child, Devier David Carringer (1889-1890).
I wish I had a photograph of any Thanksgiving that my family celebrated, but the photograph at the top of this post may have been taken on Thanksgiving. If so, I forgot to include Della's sister, Matie, and cat Buster, in the story.
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