I wondered if the FREE AI tools could provide me with a story about the reaction of my grandmother, Emily Kemp Auble (1899-1977) during 1916 when her father, Charles Auble (1849-1916) died. I wrote about Georgia Auble's vigil in Ask AI: Describe Georgia Auble's Vigil In 1916.
My genealogical sketch for Emily Kemp Auble is My Maternal Grandmother, Emily Kemp (Auble) Carringer (1899-1977), based on my genealogical research.
(AI NotebookLM Infographic of Emily Auble's Life in March 1916)
1) My Prompt to free Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 was: "Please write a story about Emily Auble's life before and after the death of her father in March 1916."
2) The AI tool responded with this story (yes, it is historical fiction, but the way it might have been):
Emily's World Changes
March 1916 - San Diego, California
Emily Auble sat at her desk in her English class at San Diego High
School, trying to focus on Miss Hamman’s lecture about
Shakespeare's sonnets. The words swam before her eyes, meaningless
combinations of letters that refused to form coherent thoughts. She
hadn't slept properly in three months, not since that December night
when everything had changed.
"Emily?" A whisper came from her left. Gladys Nolan, her
best friend since the seventh grade at Lincoln School, was looking at
her with concern. "Are you all right?"
Emily nodded automatically, the same lie she'd been telling
everyone for weeks. She wasn't all right. How could she be? Her
father was dying at home, slowly fading away from complications of
that terrible fall, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
The bell rang, startling Emily from her thoughts. She gathered her
books mechanically, following the flow of students into the hallway.
"Wait up," Gladys called, catching up to her. "Want
to come over after school? Mother made gingerbread yesterday."
Emily shook her head. "I should get home. Mother might need
help with..."
She didn't finish the sentence. Gladys knew what she meant.
Everyone knew. The whole school seemed to know that Charles Auble,
the painter, had fallen down his own stairs after a night of drinking
and was dying by inches in the house on 14th Street.
"Emily," Gladys said gently, taking her friend's arm.
"You can't just go home and sit there every day. You need to
take care of yourself too."
"I'm fine," Emily insisted, but even as she said it,
tears began to well up in her eyes. "I have to go."
She hurried down the hall before Gladys could see her cry, before
anyone could see her cry. Emily Auble was sixteen years old, and her
world was falling apart.
March 23, 1916 - Evening
The house on 14th Street was full of people—Uncle Franklin, neighbors, men from the Painters Union—all speaking in
hushed voices, offering condolences that sounded hollow and
meaningless. Emily sat in the corner of the parlor, numb and
exhausted from hours of crying.
Her father was dead.
The words didn't seem real. Just this afternoon, she'd been
sitting with him, holding his hand while he drifted in and out of
consciousness. And now he was gone, and the house felt different,
emptier, as if his absence had created a void that couldn't be
filled.
"Emily, dear." Her mother appeared at her side, looking
pale and drawn but somehow still composed. Georgia had always been
the strong one, the practical one. "Why don't you go up to your
room and rest? I'll handle things down here."
"I should help," Emily protested weakly.
"You've helped enough, sweetheart. Go rest. Please."
Emily climbed the stairs to her small bedroom, passing the closed
door of her parents' room where her father had died just hours ago.
She couldn't look at it. Inside her own room, she collapsed onto her
bed, still wearing her school dress, and stared at the ceiling.
A soft knock came at the door. "Emily? It's Gladys."
Emily sat up, surprised. "Come in."
Gladys entered, her face somber. She was carrying a basket.
"Mother sent food. And I wanted to see how you were."
"How did you...?"
"My father heard from a friend. I came as soon as I could."
Gladys set the basket down and sat on the edge of Emily's bed. "I'm
so sorry, Em."
And then Emily was crying again, great wracking sobs that seemed
to come from somewhere deep inside her. Gladys held her, not saying
anything, just being there, and somehow that was exactly what Emily
needed.
When the tears finally subsided, Emily pulled back, wiping her
eyes. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. "Everything
feels wrong. He's gone, and I don't know how to make sense of it."
"You don't have to make sense of it right now," Gladys
said. "You just have to get through today. And then tomorrow.
And I'll be here to help you."
March 25, 1916 - The Funeral
Emily stood beside her mother at the graveside service, watching
as the men from the Painters Union lowered her father's casket into
the ground. The day was bright and clear—unfairly beautiful for
such a terrible occasion. Reverend W.E. Crabtree spoke words about
eternal rest and peace, but Emily barely heard them.
She kept thinking about the fall. About how if her father had just
come home when he'd promised, if he hadn't had so much to drink, if
his friends had held onto him more carefully on those porch steps, he
might still be alive. The "what ifs" circled in her mind
endlessly, a torture she couldn't escape.
Gladys stood slightly behind her, a quiet presence of support.
After the service, as people began to drift away, Gladys squeezed
Emily's hand.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," she
whispered. "It's all right to fall apart."
But Emily couldn't fall apart. Her mother needed her. They had
decisions to make, a future to figure out, bills that would keep
coming whether her father was alive or not.
April 1916
The days after the funeral blurred together. Emily tried to return
to school, but found she couldn't focus. The subjects that had once
interested her—English literature, history, mathematics—seemed
pointless now. What did Shakespeare matter when your father was dead?
What did algebra have to do with real life?
She sat in the parlor one evening with her mother, both of them
sewing in silence. The house felt too quiet without her father's
presence, without his footsteps on the stairs, his voice calling out
when he came home from work, the smell of paint and turpentine that
had always clung to his clothes.
"Mother," Emily said suddenly, "we need to talk
about money."
Georgia looked up from her mending, her face carefully neutral.
"I'm handling it, Emily. Don't worry yourself."
"But I know Father's business is gone, and the bills..."
Emily had been thinking about this for days, adding up numbers in her
head. The house, the food, the funeral expenses. Her mother's widow's
pension wouldn't be enough.
Georgia set down her sewing and looked at her daughter directly.
"Emily, you're sixteen years old. You should be finishing high
school, going to parties, thinking about your future. Not worrying
about bills."
"But I am worried," Emily said. "And I'm old enough
to help. I could get a job. Marston's is always hiring. I could work
as a sales clerk, or in the office..."
"Absolutely not," Georgia said firmly. "You're
going to finish school."
"Mother, be realistic," Emily argued, feeling tears
prick at her eyes again. "We can't afford for me to just go to
school and do nothing. You need help, and I can provide it. I want to
provide it."
Georgia's composure cracked slightly, and Emily saw the fear and
exhaustion underneath. "If you leave school now, you'll never go
back. You'll spend your whole life working in shops and offices,
never getting the education you deserve."
"Maybe that's just how it has to be," Emily said
quietly. "Father's gone. Things have changed. We have to change
with them."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of this new
reality settling over both of them like a shroud. Finally, Georgia
spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I wanted so much more for you. College, maybe. Or at least a
high school diploma. Choices. Opportunities. Not this."
"I know," Emily said, moving to sit beside her mother on
the sofa. She took Georgia's hand. "But we're in this together,
Mother. We'll get through it together."
Georgia squeezed her daughter's hand, tears finally spilling down
her cheeks. "You're so young to carry this burden."
"I'm stronger than I look," Emily said, trying to sound
more confident than she felt. "You've taught me that."
May 1916
"You're really leaving?" Gladys asked, her voice thick
with emotion. They were sitting on a bench outside San Diego High
School during lunch period. Emily had just told her friend about her
decision.
"I don't have a choice," Emily said. "We need the
money. Mother can't pay all the bills on her own, and I can't just
sit in school learning about ancient Rome when she's struggling."
"But you're so close to graduating," Gladys protested.
"You only have one more year. Can't you just finish?"
Emily shook her head. "I've thought about it from every
angle. Even if I could finish this year and graduate next spring,
that's more than a year of lost income. We can't afford it." She
paused, looking down at her hands. "I've already applied at
Marston's. They're going to hire me."
"Marston's Department Store?" Gladys asked. "What
will you do there?"
"Sales clerk, probably. Or maybe work in the office. They
said they'd find a position for me." Emily tried to sound
optimistic, but the words felt hollow. A month ago, she'd been
planning her senior year, thinking about what she might study after
graduation. Now she was planning to spend her days selling gloves and
handkerchiefs to wealthy ladies.
Gladys was quiet for a moment, and Emily could see her friend
struggling with what to say. Finally, Gladys spoke. "I'll miss
you. School won't be the same without you."
"I'll miss you too," Emily said, and she meant it.
Leaving school meant leaving behind the last bit of normalcy in her
life, the last connection to the girl she'd been before her father's
accident. "But we'll still see each other. I'll just be working
instead of studying."
"Promise me something," Gladys said suddenly, grabbing
Emily's hand. "Promise me you won't let this define your whole
life. You're not just the girl whose father died. You're not just the
girl who had to quit school. You're Emily Auble, and you're smart and
kind and you deserve to be happy."
Emily felt tears spring to her eyes for what felt like the
thousandth time in the past two months. "I'll try," she
whispered.
"And promise me we'll stay friends," Gladys continued.
"No matter what happens, no matter how different our lives
become. You're my best friend, Emily. That doesn't change just
because you're not in school anymore."
"I promise," Emily said, and they hugged tightly, both
of them crying now, mourning the future that should have been.
June 1916 - Last Day of School
Emily's last day at San Diego High School was
anticlimactic. She cleaned out her locker, turned in her textbooks,
and said goodbye to a few teachers who looked at her with pity that
made her want to scream. Miss Hamman, her English teacher, pulled her
aside in the hallway.
"Emily, I'm so sorry about your
circumstances," Miss Hamman said kindly. "You're one of the
brightest students I've ever taught. It's a shame you can't
continue."
"Thank you, Miss Hamman," Emily said,
not sure what else to say.
The teacher handed her a small package wrapped
in brown paper. "Keep reading," she said. "Education
doesn't end just because school does. This is for you."
Later, when Emily unwrapped the package at
home, she found a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson and a note
that read: "For Emily Auble, who has more strength and grace
than she knows. Never stop learning. Never stop growing. - Miss
Hamman"
Emily sat on her bed, holding the book, and
cried for the third time that day.
That evening, Gladys came over with her own
gift—a leather-bound journal. "For writing down your
thoughts," Gladys explained. "My mother always says that
writing helps when things are hard. You can tell the journal things
you can't tell anyone else."
"Thank you," Emily said, hugging her
friend tightly. "For everything. For being there through all of
this."
"That's what friends do," Gladys said
simply. "And I'm not going anywhere. Even if you're not in
school anymore, I'm still your friend. I'll always be your friend."
After Gladys left, Emily sat with her mother in
the parlor. Georgia had been unusually quiet all evening, and Emily
could see the guilt and sadness in her face.
"It's not your fault, Mother," Emily
said gently. "None of this is your fault."
"You should be celebrating the end of your
junior year," Georgia said. "Planning your senior year.
Going to summer parties with Gladys. Instead, you're giving up your
education to work in a department store because I can't provide for
us on my own."
"We're providing for us together,"
Emily corrected. "That's what families do. They help each
other." She paused, then added, "Father would want us to
take care of each other. And this is how we do it."
Georgia's eyes filled with tears. "You're
so much braver than I was at your age."
"I'm not brave," Emily said. "I'm
terrified. But I'm doing it anyway, because there's no other choice.
And you're doing the same thing. We're both just... surviving.
Together."
"Surviving together," Georgia
repeated softly. "I suppose that's all we can do for now."
To be continued…
A Historical Fiction Story Inspired by Emily Kemp
Auble's Life
Note: This is a work of historical fiction. While based on the
documented life of Emily Kemp Auble (1899-1977), daughter of Charles
Auble (1849-1916) and Georgianna Kemp Auble (1868-1952), the specific
details, dialogue, thoughts, and conversations in this story are
imagined. We know Emily left San Diego High School in June 1916 after
her father's death and went to work to support her mother, but the
exact circumstances and her emotional experience are not recorded in
historical documents.
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3) Here is the Video Overview of this post by Google NotebookLM:
4) This is historical fiction based on the facts that are available for the life and family of EmilyAuble. It is historical fiction based on social history and society norms at the time and place, so it is likely realistic. It might have happened this way.
5) I had to tell this story -it's a Turning Point for all three of them. Each ancestor faces challenges in their life, and telling stories about them helps our descendants understand their parents lives and their own lives.
I asked Claude to write this story 110 years after Charles Auble died on 23 March 2026. I didn't plan it that way, it just happened. When I realized that, I wondered if the ancestors were telling me to tell this story now.
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Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver
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