Wednesday, August 12, 2026

Genealogy Education Bytes - Week of 6 to 12 August 2026

  Welcome to Genealogy Education Bytes, posted on Wednesday afternoon for the past week, where we try to highlight some of the most important genealogy and family history education items that came across my desktop since the last issue.




1) Upcoming Conferences and Institutes:

* Conference Keeper Calendar - has many links to register for and/or view seminars, conferences and institutes.

*  5th Annual East Coast Genetic Genealogy Conference ($$, In-person + Recordings, Boston, Mass.) -- 21 to 23 August 2026.

*  2026 New York State Family History Conference ($$, In-person/Virtual, New York City) -- 18 to 19 September 2026.

*  2026 Heritage Books Genealogical Conference & Cruise with Angie Bush, Blaine Bettinger, and Craig Scott ($$, In-person, Cruise from Miami, Florida) -- 6 to 17 November 2026.

2 ) Upcoming Webinars and Online Classes (times are US Pacific):

* Conference Keeper Calendar - has many links to register for and/or view seminars, webinars and classes.

* FamilySearch MonthlyWebinars (Free)

* RootsTech 2019-2026 On-Demand Sessions (Free) 

*  Legacy Family Tree Webinar -- Wednesday, 12 August, 11 a.m.:  Citations Made Simple: Strategies for Every Genealogist by Lisa Stokes.

*  Legacy Family Tree Webinar -- Tuesday, 18 August, 5 p.m.:  Supercharged Research: Working with AI Tools and Meeting Genealogy Standards by David S. Ouimette.

*  Legacy Family Tree Webinar -- Wednesday, 19 August, 11 a.m.:  DNA in Action 4 of 6: The DNA FAN Club by Karen Stanbary.

*  Legacy Family Tree Webinar -- Friday, 21 August, 11 a.m.:  Migration Pathways Between Canada and the United States You Haven’t Considered by Kathryn Lake Hogan.

3) Recent Podcasts:

* Ancestors and Algorithms:  Ep. 50: Can the New Genealogy AI Crack Hazel's Wall? | FamilySearch AI Research Assistant vs Ancestry AI.  



4) Recent YouTube Videos:


*  BYU Library Family History Center:  Chicago Area Research - Maureen Brady (5 August 2026)






* Italian Roots and Genealogy:  Interview with Author Jennifer Anton
* Italian Roots and Genealogy:  Italian Train Tips Nobody Tells You

*  Marcia Philbrick:  Blacksmith Company I Noah Briles





*  Trace Your New England Roots:  Don't Be Fooled by These Ancestry Myths
*  Trace Your New England Roots:  These 5 Free Genealogy Websites Are a Game Changer


5) Did you miss the last post in this series -- Genealogy Education Bytes - Week of 30 July to 5 August 2026?

Read past Genealogy Education Bytes here.

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NOTE: If I missed an upcoming conference or webinar, or a useful podcast or video, in this time period, please let me know in a comment or an email.

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Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver

Please comment on this post on the website by clicking the URL above and then the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post. Share your comment on X, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below. Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com. Note that all comments are moderated and may not appear immediately.

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Life Memoir of Abbie Ardelle “Della” (Smith) Carringer (1863-1944) in 1943 in San Diego, California

I wrote an AI-assisted ABC biography for  my great-grandmother Abbie Ardelle "Della" (Smith) Carringer in ABC Biography of #13 Abbey Ardelle "Della" (Smith) Carringer (1862-1944) of Wisconsin, Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, and California  based on my genealogical research over 38 years. 

I wondered what Della (Smith) Carringer might have told her granddaughter Betty in a life memoir in late 1943.

(AI Google NotebookLM Infographic for Della (Smith) Carringer's life memoir)

I requested Anthropic Claude Sonnet 5 to "Please write a life memoir for Della (Smith) Carringer based on the attached biography, as she might tell her granddaughter Betty in late 1943."

The AI Anthropic Claude Sonnet 5 memoir (edited for accuracy and completeness) is: 


Della's Story: A Grandmother's Memoir to Betty (Late 1943, San Diego)

Della Carringer sits in her front room at 2115 30th Street, in the home she and Austin built decades ago. She is 81 years old, her husband Austin nearby, as she speaks to her granddaughter Betty Carringer, gathering her memories to pass down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Come sit by me, Betty. Pull that chair close, dear — my eyes aren't what they used to be, but I still want to see your face while I tell you these things. I'm an old woman now, eighty-one years old, and I find myself thinking more and more about where I came from and how I got here to this house, to this life, to you and to little Randy asleep in the other room.

My Beginning

I was born on the 11th of April, 1862, in a place called Rolling Prairie, up in Dodge County, Wisconsin. The war between the states was raging then, though I was too small to know anything of it. My father was Devier James Lamphier Smith — everyone called him D.J. — and my mother was Abigail Vaux, though we all called her Abbie.

We didn't stay put in Wisconsin. Your great-grandfather Devier had ambition in him, always looking for the next opportunity. By the time I was six or seven, we'd moved to Iowa — Benton township, in Taylor County. I remember it a little, Betty, though memories from so young are more like feelings than pictures. I remember my brother David being born, and then my sister Mary Ann — we called her Matie.

Kansas Years

When I was about thirteen, we moved again, this time to Kansas — first to Lincoln township near Concordia, in Cloud County. Papa ran a livery stable there. Oh, the smell of that place — hay and horses and leather. I spent hours there as a girl, watching Papa work with the customers, learning how a business operates, how you keep your word and treat people fair.

Your great-grandmother Abbie was a milliner — she made hats, beautiful things with ribbons and feathers. I watched her hands work that fabric into something lovely, and I think that's where I got my own love of making things beautiful. She had her own money from that trade, you know. Not every woman did in those days.

Papa moved us again — always looking for something better — to Clyde township, then to McCook, Nebraska for a spell, and we had a little summer place in Wano, out in Cheyenne County, Kansas, hard against the Colorado line. That's where everything changed for me.

Meeting Your Grandfather

I was a young woman by then, teaching music — piano mostly — to bring in a little money of my own. And there was a young man in town, a carpenter by trade, named Henry Austin Carringer. Everyone called him Austin. He'd come out from Pennsylvania to Colorado, and owned the lot next to our lot in Wano.

Now, Betty, I'll tell you something — Wano wasn't much of a town, but we made our own fun. There was a little playhouse, and Austin and I found ourselves in the same theatrical productions. We performed together — "Lady Audley's Secret," "The Dairyman's Daughter," oh, several plays. I kept a scrapbook of all those old playbills and notices. There's something about performing together, pretending to be other people, that lets you see someone's true heart. I saw Austin's kindness, his steadiness, and I fell in love with him.

We courted for three years. Can you imagine, waiting three years? But we were building something — I had my own land, you know, two parcels I'd received from the government, and Papa had land, and Austin had land. We were saving, planning.

On the 11th of September, 1887, Reverend Emanuel Richards married us in the Congregational Church in Wano. I was twenty-five years old.

Coming to San Diego

Here's the part I want you to remember most, Betty. A month after our wedding, Austin and I sold our Kansas land and got on a train headed west. We came to San Diego with twenty dollars in our pockets. Twenty dollars! That was all we had to start our whole life together.

But we were young, and we were willing to work. Austin was a fine carpenter, and there was building going on everywhere in this growing city. I found ways to earn too — teaching music, teaching art for a time. We were partners in everything, your grandfather and I.

Sorrow and Joy

Our first child came in August of 1889 — a fine, healthy boy we named Devier David, after both our fathers. Nine pounds, the newspaper said, "a bright faced boy." We were so happy, Betty.

But God had a hard lesson for us. Little Devier died the next spring, not even a year old. I cannot describe to you the grief of that time. Austin took it very hard — he turned away from his faith after that, and never quite came back to it the way he'd been before. I held onto mine, though it was tested sorely.

When your father, Lyle, was born in November of 1891, we were overjoyed but also frightened — frightened to love too much, to hope too much. But he thrived, and he became our whole world.

Building Our Life

Austin and I worked hard, Betty. We bought property — lots on 30th Street and Watkins Avenue, what they call Hawthorn Street now. Austin built us a fine two-story house there with his own two hands. I managed the money, bought and sold land when the opportunity was right, kept the books straight. I suppose I always had a head for business, even though it wasn't common for a woman to handle such things.

We raised chickens, grew our own fruit and vegetables — everything that would grow in this wonderful California climate. I designed some of our furniture, and Austin built it. We built a life together, piece by piece, the same way we'd built that house.

My mother, your great-grandmother Abbie, came to live with us after my father passed in 1894. She was with us for years — helped raise your father, sat with us through good times and hard times, until she left us in 1931. I was glad to have her near.

Your Father's Happiness

The greatest joy of my later years, Betty, was watching your father find his own love — Emily Auble, such a lovely girl. And then you came along, and I became a grandmother. And now little Randy, my great-grandson.

I want you to know, Betty, that family is everything. Not the money, not the property, though the Lord knows we worked hard enough for what we have. It's the people. It's you, sitting here with me now.

Our Golden Years

Your grandfather and I celebrated fifty years of marriage back in 1937 — the newspaper even wrote about us, called it "Honeymoon Trip to S.D. Extends Half a Century." Fifty years, Betty! I told that reporter that we'd worked hard as partners and always tried to be kind and helpful to others. I still believe that's the best religion there is — to work hard and be kind.

We've lived in this same spot for over fifty-five years now. This corner of San Diego has watched us grow old, has watched our son grow up and marry and give us you, has watched the city itself grow from a dusty little town into what it is today.

What I Want You to Remember

Betty, my dear girl, I'm eighty-one years old now, and I know I won't be here forever. I want you to remember that your family came from hardworking, resourceful people. Your great-great-grandparents moved across half a country looking for opportunity. Your grandfather and I arrived here with almost nothing and built a good life through partnership and perseverance.

I want you to remember the value of standing on your own two feet — I always kept my own hand in business, always contributed, never just sat idle. I want you to remember to make room for beauty in your life too — music, art, flowers, whatever brings joy — because a life of only work and worry isn't a life fully lived.

And I want you to remember that we are of a resilient stock, Betty. Frontier stock. Whatever comes your way — and this war we're in now worries me terribly, thinking of all the young men fighting — you come from people who faced hardship and kept going, kept building, kept loving each other through it all.

Take care of your mother and father when I'm gone. Take care of Fred, and that sweet little Randy. And remember your old grandmother, sitting here in this house that Austin built, telling you these stories on a December evening in 1943, so many years and so many miles from where I started in Wisconsin.

Della reaches for Betty's hand, her weathered fingers, still strong despite her years, closing around her granddaughter's.

That's my story, dear girl. Now it's yours to carry forward too.

===========================

The Video Overview of Della (Smith) Carringer's life memoir, created by the Google NotebookLM AI tool, is below and on my YouTube channel:        ]

I edited the Claude memoir text to correct minor inconsistencies and errors. Every large language model (LLM) AI tool writes descriptive text much better than I can write. The AI tools are very perceptive, insightful and inspiring, creating engaging text in seconds, including local and national historical events and social history detail when requested.

This is historical fiction, based on my own genealogical research and family records. It is what Della might have told her granddaughter Betty in late 1943.  

==============================================

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) 2026, Randall J. Seaver

The URL for this post is: 

Please comment on this post on the website by clicking the URL above and then the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post. Share it on X, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below. Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com. Please note that all comments are moderated, and may not appear immediately.

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The Frederick W. Seaver Family in 1956 -- (Not So) Wordless Wednesday #928

  This is a priceless (to me) image in my computer file folders from the Seaver family collection:


This is a photograph of my birth family taken in March 1956 probably in the living room of my grandparents home at 825 Harbor View Place in San Diego. I don't know who took the photograph -- perhaps my grandfather, Lyle Carringer.

From the left:
  • Randall Jeffrey Seaver (age 12) holding the cat
  • Frederick Walton Seaver Jr. (age 44), my father
  • Scott Seaver (age 4 months) on Fred's lap, my brother
  • Betty Virginia (Carringer) Seaver (age 36), my mother
  • Stanley Seaver (age 9), my brother
This event is part of my family history!!

NOTE:  I used the MyHeritage photo tools to sharpen and colorize this image.

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The URL for this post is:  

Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver

Please comment on this post on the website by clicking the URL above and then the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post. Share it on X, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below. Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com.    I moderate all comments and they may not appear immediately - please write only one comment.

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Tuesday, August 11, 2026

Genealogy News Bytes - Week of 5 to 11 August 2026

Welcome to Genealogy News Bytes, posted on Tuesday afternoon for the past week, where we try to highlight the most important genealogy and family history news  items that came across our desktop since the last issue.    


1)  Genealogy and Family History News Articles:










2)  DNA Testing and Genetic Genealogy

3)  Genealogy Book/Magazine Notices and Reviews:



4)  Genealogy Software/Mobile Apps



5)  New or Updated Genealogy Digital Record Collections:









6)  Did you miss the last post in this series?  See Genealogy News Bytes - Week of 29 July to 4 August 2026.


                          =========================================


Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver

Please comment on this post on the website by clicking the URL above and then the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post.  Share it on X, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below.  Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com.  Note that all comments are moderated, and may not appear immediately.

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Emily and Lyle's Story: The Wedding Plan, March 1918 (Part 1 of 2)

Here is the latest chapter in the story of the courtship and early married life and times of my maternal grandparents, Emily Auble and Lyle Carringer, who married in June 1918. The background information and the list of chapters of their life together are listed at the end of this post.  This is historical fiction with real people and real events, and is how it might have been.

And now we are into  March 1918, and the June wedding needs to be planned.

I asked my AI Assistant Anthropic Claude to tell the story of Emily and Lyle planning the wedding in March 1918 (I offered helpful suggestions...). This is Part 1 of 2:

                 (AI Google NotebookLM Infographic:  Wedding Plan, March 1918)  


Emily and Lyle's Story: 

Planning Everything -- March 1918 (Part 1 of 2)

The List on the Kitchen Table

It was Georgia who produced the notepad. Not Emily's small social notebook but Georgia's own — a serious, cloth-bound thing she used for household accounts — which she set on the kitchen table on the first Thursday evening in March with the air of someone convening a meeting.

"If you're going to plan a wedding," she said, settling into her chair, "you should write everything down. Otherwise you will talk about the same things three times and forget the important ones."

Lyle was still holding his coffee cup. He looked at Emily, who looked at the notepad, which looked like it had been waiting for exactly this conversation.

"All right," Emily said, pulling the notepad toward her. She uncapped her pen. "Everything."

They had told their parents the previous Thursday — Lyle's parents first, at 30th Street, where Della had produced tears immediately and Austin had shaken Lyle's hand for a long time without speaking, which from Austin communicated everything it needed to. Georgia had already known, because Georgia always already knew, but she received the formal announcement with the appropriate gravity of someone hearing something for the first time.

The telling had been the easy part. Now came the details, and details, as Lyle knew from his PX work, were where good intentions met actual arithmetic.

Emily wrote at the top of the page: June 19, 1918. Then she drew a line beneath it and began.

"First," she said, "where we live."

Where They Would Live

The question of where Lyle and Emily would live after June 19 had been in both their minds since February, circling without landing. A PFC's salary had improved but not transformed — thirty-eight dollars a month now, with the possibility of further advancement but not the certainty of it. Whatever they found would need to be modest, practical, and near a trolley line.

"I can live off-base if I'm married," Lyle said. "I've already looked into it. I have to request approval, and there's paperwork, but it's standard for married enlisted men. The barracks bunk goes to someone else."

"And you'd commute to the base every day," Emily said.

"Twenty minutes on the trolley from most of the neighborhoods near downtown. Less from some."

Georgia was watching both of them with the attention she brought to things she had already thought through. When they looked at her, she said: "You're going to say I should come with you."

"We weren't going to say it like that," Emily said.

"Then how were you going to say it?"

Emily looked at the notepad. "I was going to say that we'd been talking about what makes the most sense, practically, given that you have no income of your own and that splitting a household three ways costs less than managing two separate ones, and that we would both very much like—"

"Yes," Georgia said.

Emily looked up. "Yes?"

"Yes, I'll come," Georgia said. "Obviously. Did you think I wouldn't?"

"We didn't know how to ask," Lyle admitted.

"You just asked," Georgia said. "Write it down."

Emily wrote: Three people. Then, after a pause: Georgia's room must face the garden if there is one.

Georgia looked at what she'd written. "I don't require a garden," she said.

"I know," Emily said. "I require you to have one."

Georgia picked up her coffee cup and said nothing further on the subject, which meant the matter was settled.

They needed four rooms — a bedroom, a room for Georgia, a kitchen and sitting room. Near the trolley. Below a certain price per month that Lyle and Emily calculated together on the back of the notepad, factoring his salary, what Emily made at Marston's, and a modest reserve for the unexpected.

"South Park," Lyle said. "Or Golden Hill. Or Sherman Heights. Or Grant Hill. Some good streets there with houses that subdivide into flats. Close to the 30th Street line."

"I know one on Fern Street," Emily said. "Two blocks from the trolley. I walked past it last week — there was a sign for the upper flat."

"Fern Street," Lyle said. He had walked those blocks himself a hundred times, going to and from his parents' house. It felt right in the way that familiar things feel right when you see them from a new angle.

Emily wrote: Fern Street — check upper flat.

The Dress

Gladys had taken the problem of the wedding dress in hand with the efficiency of someone who considers organizational challenges to be personally directed at her and is unwilling to be defeated by them.

"You can't buy a wedding dress," she said, at lunch the first week of March, with the directness that made her invaluable. "Not on your budget. Not a good one."

"I know," Emily said.

"But you can make one. Or have one made." Gladys had clearly been thinking about this for some time. "Mrs. Hennessey in alterations made her daughter's wedding dress last year — I saw it. Beautiful work. And she uses Marston's fabric at cost because she's been here fifteen years."

Emily put down her sandwich. "You've already spoken to her."

"I mentioned it in passing," Gladys said, which was Gladys's way of saying she had conducted a thorough preliminary negotiation.

"And?"

"She says blue silk with a white hat is the right choice. Modest, modern, not the kind of thing that looks like it's trying too hard. With the right cut, simple lace at the collar and cuffs, you'll look exactly right."

Emily was quiet for a moment, thinking about what exactly right meant for a quiet wedding at Central Christian Church in wartime San Diego. Not the grand gown of peacetime tradition. Something that understood its own occasion.

"When can she start?" Emily asked.

"She's waiting for you to come see her," Gladys said, and picked up her sandwich with the expression of someone who has done what needed doing.

Emily went to see Mrs. Hennessey that afternoon. The woman was sixty, brisk, and had hands that moved over fabric the way Georgia's moved in the kitchen — with a certainty that comes from knowing exactly what you're doing and having done it ten thousand times. She had Emily measured in ten minutes, made three chalk marks on a length of blue silk, and told her the dress would be ready for a first fitting by the last week of April.

"Simple," Mrs. Hennessey said, which was instruction, not description.

"Simple," Emily agreed.

When she told Lyle about it on Thursday, he said: "Did you choose?"

"Mrs. Hennessey chose," Emily said. "I agreed."

"Like Frances with the birthday dress?"

"Very like Frances," Emily said. "I'm learning to trust the person who knows."

Who Would Give Her Away

This question sat on the notepad for a week before either of them addressed it properly. Emily's father had died wo years before. She had no brothers. The question of who would walk her down the aisle — short as Central Christian's aisle was — had no obvious answer.

"Franklin," Lyle said one Thursday, meaning Emily's uncle, Georgia’s brother.

"He's in Los Angeles," Emily said. "I last saw him at father’s funeral. We haven't spoken in over a year."

"Would you want him there?"

Emily was quiet. The question of her uncle was complicated in the way that family questions often are — history and distance and the accumulated small failures of staying in touch accumulated into something that was easier not to examine directly.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I'd need to write to him."

"Then write to him," Lyle said. "Whatever he says, you'll know you asked."

Emily wrote to Franklin that week. The letter took three drafts. She told him the date, the church, the small size of the occasion. She said she would understand if the distance made it impractical. She did not say that she hoped he would come, because she was still deciding whether she hoped that.

While they waited for his reply, Georgia said, quietly, one evening when it was just the two of them at the kitchen table: "If he doesn't come, I will."

Emily looked up. "You're not my uncle."

"No," Georgia said. "But I'm what you have. And I know the way down an aisle." She returned to her knitting. "Write it down in the planning book, either way, so you're ready."

Emily wrote: Franklin — waiting for reply. Georgia — if needed. Both — if possible.

The Invitation List

This was where arithmetic and affection came into direct conflict, and where Lyle's auditor's mind proved most useful.

"Twelve," he said, when they had been going around the question for twenty minutes. "Maximum. The church's small parlor holds twelve comfortably and sixteen with some goodwill. We have twelve without stretching."

Emily counted on the notepad. From the Carringer side: Austin and Della, Uncle Edgar, Grandmother Abbie. Uncle Davey and Amy, Maybelle if she was included. Aunt Matie. That was eight. Abbie's sister Elizabeth and her family couldn't travel.

From Emily's side: Georgia. Franklin, if he came. Possibly his wife Ella, if he brought her. Georgia's brother in Los Angeles and her sister in  Chicago couldn't travel. That was one certain, possibly three.

"Gladys?" Emily said.

Lyle considered. "Is Gladys family?"

"She's my best friend, built the dress, organized Mrs. Hennessey, and will probably run the reception before we've asked her to," Emily said. "That seems like family.”

"Gladys," Lyle agreed.

"Charlie Morrison," Emily offered.

"Charlie," Lyle confirmed, without discussion, because Charlie Morrison was the kind of friend who had earned inclusion in things, and was his best friend.

They counted: thirteen possible, eleven certain, plus Lyle and Emily who would not be seated. Lyle wrote the number at the bottom of the page and put a box around it. It was a small wedding, and it was theirs, and it was exactly right for what they were and what they had.

The Church

On the first Sunday in March, Lyle accompanied Emily and Georgia to the morning service at Central Christian Church on E Street, as had become their practice on the Sundays when his Liberty Pass allowed it. After the congregation had filed out and Georgia had begun the deliberate business of finding her coat and bag — a process that reliably created two or three minutes of useful space — Lyle stepped aside with Reverend Crabtree in the small vestibule beside the sanctuary door. The Reverend already knew Lyle by name, had known Emily since she first appeared in a pew beside Georgia Auble, and listened to the request with the quiet attention of a man for whom such conversations are both routine and never less than serious.

Lyle told him the date — June nineteenth — and Crabtree opened his calendar book on the spot, confirmed the date was clear, and wrote it in with the finality of an official act. Then he asked the practical questions in the orderly way of a pastor who has done this many times: the marriage license, which the county clerk issued and which needed to be obtained beforehand and brought to the church; the order of the ceremony, which Crabtree described as processional, opening words, the vows, the exchange of rings, the pronouncement, and the blessing — simple, complete, Protestant in its directness; and whether Lyle wanted any particular scripture or hymn included, which Lyle said he would discuss with Emily and let him know. Crabtree noted all of it, shook Lyle's hand with the warmth he reserved for things that mattered, and said he looked forward to June nineteenth. By the time Georgia had located her second glove, it was done.

To be continued ....

==============================

Here is the Video Overview of this story by Google NotebookLM (also on my YouTube channel here):  

This is historical fiction based on the facts that are available for the life and family of my maternal grandparents, Lyle and Emily(Auble) Carringer.  It is based on my research, social history and society norms at the time and place, and it is likely realistic. It might have happened this way.

Stay tuned for the next chapters in this family story.

                                                          ==========================

The AI-assisted biography of my maternal grandmother is in ABC Biography of #7 Emily Kemp (Auble) Carringer (1899-1977) of Illinois and California. I wrote a story about her life in 1916 in Ask AI: Describe Emily Auble's Life After the Death of Her Father In 1916.

The AI-assisted biography of my maternal grandfather is in ABC Biography of #6 Lyle Lawrence Carringer (1891-1976) of San Diego, California. I wrote a story about Lyle being a young working man in 1916 being teased about being boring in Lyle's Story: Finding Courage in 1916-1917.

Then I wrote seven more chapters of their life together:                   
==============================================

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) 2026, Randall J. Seaver


Please comment on this post on the website by clicking the URL above and then the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post.  Share it on X, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below.  Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com.  Note that all comments are moderated, so they may not appear immediately.

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