I wrote an AI-assisted couple biography for my father Frederick Walton Seaver, Jr. (1911-1983) in ABC Biography of #2 Frederick Walton Seaver Jr. (1911-1983) of Massachusetts and San Diego, California based on my memories and genealogical research over 38 years.
I wondered what Frederick Seaver might say in a life memoir told to his three sons in early 1983.
(Frederick Walton Seaver Jr. family in 1976 - from family sources)
1) Based on the genealogical sketch, I requested Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 to create a memoir told by Thomas Richmond about his life in 1917. The prompt was: "Please write a life memoir for Frederick Walton Seaver Jr. based on the attached biography, as he might tell to his children in early 1983."
2) The AI Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 memoir (lightly edited for accuracy) is:
My Story: A Life Remembered
As told by Frederick Walton Seaver Jr. to his
sons, early 1983
Boys, I've been thinking lately that I should tell you some
things—not just the stories you already know, but the whole arc of
it, you know? How I got from there to here. Your mother says I should
write it down, but that's not really my style. So I'm just going to
tell it to you straight, the way I remember it.
Growing Up in Leominster
I was born in Fitchburg, Massachusetts, on October 15, 1911—which
makes me 71 now, if you're keeping track. My father was Frederick
Walton Seaver, same as me, and my mother was Alma Bessie Richmond. We
called her Mother, but her friends called her Bessie. Good woman,
your grandmother. Strong. Had to be, raising seven children, though
one of my brothers, Stanley, died when he was just four years old.
Scarlet fever. That was before my time -- I mean, before I was
born -- but it hung over the family, you know? My parents never quite
got over losing him.
I was the fifth child and the first boy who lived past childhood.
That probably shaped me more than I realized at the time. My older
sisters—Marion, Evelyn, and Ruth -- they kind of mothered me, but
they also expected me to be tough. Then came my younger brother Ed,
and then Geraldine, the baby.
We moved to Leominster when I was about two, and that's what I
think of as home -- or at least, my first home. My father worked as a
superintendent in the comb and celluloid industry. Good, steady work.
We weren't rich, but we weren't poor either. We lived next to the
factory in a house owned by the company at 290 Central Street.
I remember visiting my grandparents, Frank and Harriet Seaver, all
the time. They lived nearby and I was crazy about them. Grandpa Frank
had stories about everything, and Grandma Harriet always had
something good in the kitchen. My mother's parents lived in
Connecticut, so we didn't see them as much, but when we did, it was
special.
The Football Years
I went to Leominster High School at first, but I... well, I wasn't
focused on learning – I loved sports. Dropped out. Not my proudest
moment, and my parents were none too happy about it. But I finished
up at Worcester Academy and graduated in 1930. That's where I really
came into my own as an athlete -- baseball, football and basketball,
mostly. I was good, boys. Really good. Good enough that Dartmouth
College gave me a football scholarship.
Dartmouth. Can you imagine? A kid from Leominster, going to an Ivy
League school to play football. I was on top of the world.
I played from September to November 1932, and then... well, then I
got injured. Not just a little banged up -- injured enough that I
couldn't play anymore. And without football, I didn't have the money
to stay. I didn't finish college, and that injury ended my athletic
career just like that. Snap of the fingers.
I don't talk about it much, but that was hard. Really hard. You
build your whole identity around being an athlete, being the guy
who's going somewhere, and then suddenly that's over and you're back
home during the Depression trying to figure out what's next.
The Depression and Mary
The 1930s were tough for everyone. I worked whatever jobs I could
find around Leominster—sales, investigator work for finance
companies, that sort of thing. I played some basketball and baseball
in the town leagues, stayed active. Tried to figure out who I was if
I wasn't a football player anymore.
And I met a girl in 1939. Her name was Mary.
[Long pause]
I don't talk about this much, and your mother knows the basics,
but you boys should know too. Mary and I were together for over a
year. I thought she was the one—I really did. I was ready to marry
her, start a life. So I did what you were supposed to do in those
days: I asked her father for permission to marry her.
He said no. Flat out refused.
She was Catholic, and I was Episcopalian, and to her father that
was that. No discussion, no compromise. It didn't matter that we
loved each other. It didn't matter what we wanted. He wouldn't allow
it.
[Another pause]
There were... complications. Rumors. My sisters thought Mary might
have been pregnant when it ended, which would have made everything
even worse. Ed swears she wasn't. I don't know what the truth was,
and at this point it doesn't matter. What mattered then was that I
was 29 years old, heartbroken, and I felt like I was suffocating in
Massachusetts. The cold, the snow, my sister Ruth's house where I was
staying, the whole town knowing my business—I couldn't take it
anymore.
The Drive West
So in early December 1940, I just... left. Packed up my car and
drove west. Told everyone I was tired of the cold and shoveling snow,
which was true enough, but that wasn't really why I was going.
I followed Route 20 west, then picked up Route 66 -- the Mother
Road, they call it. Then Route 395 down into San Diego. When I got to
Columbus, Ohio, I stopped long enough to mail a letter to Aunt Emily
in San Diego, telling her I'd be there in three days.
Three thousand miles in four days, boys. No freeways, just
two-lane highways through every little town. I told people later that
I didn't sleep for three days, and maybe I dozed in a parking lot
here and there, but mostly I just drove. I couldn't stop. If I
stopped, I'd think, and if I thought, I'd feel, and I couldn't afford
to feel right then.
I drove through winter in the Midwest, across the plains, through
the Southwest desert. Watched the landscape change from snow and bare
trees to mountains, mesas and cactus. By the time I reached California, I felt
like I'd driven to another planet.
I pulled up to Marshall and Dorothy Chamberlain's house on Terrace
Drive in Kensington, and they took me in. Dorothy's mother, Emily,
was my Aunt Emily -- my mother's sister. Family takes care of family,
and they took care of me when I needed it most.
Meeting Your Mother
I lived with Marshall and Dorothy for a few months, found some
work, tried to get my feet under me. And then one night at dinner, I
said something that still makes me laugh when I think about it. I
just announced to everyone: "I need a girl."
Just like that. No subtlety, no finesse. Just a guy admitting he
was lonely and ready to meet someone.
And Marcia -- Marshall and Dorothy's daughter, my cousin -- she
piped right up: "I know one!"
She was talking about one of her teachers at Woodrow Wilson Junior
High School. Miss Betty Carringer. Taught art and English. Marshall and Dorothy
agreed to host a dinner, Marcia invited her teacher, and that was
that.
Your mother came to dinner in the spring of 1941. I was nervous as
hell, I can tell you that. Here was this beautiful, smart,
accomplished young woman -- she'd graduated from San Diego State, she
was teaching, she had her whole life figured out. And here I was, a
college dropout who'd just run away from Massachusetts with a broken
heart.
But we talked, and we laughed, and she was... she was easy to be
with, you know? Not dramatic, not demanding. Just genuine and warm
and interested in things. Interested in me, even though I was 29 and
working odd jobs and living with relatives.
We started dating. I moved to an apartment in South Park to be
closer to her. And pretty soon I knew: this was it. This was what I'd
been driving toward when I left Massachusetts, even though I didn't
know it at the time.
We got engaged in April 1942 and married that July at St. Paul's
Episcopal Church. My mother and sister Geraldine came all the way out
from Massachusetts on the train for the wedding. That meant the world
to me -- my mother making that long trip to see me marry Betty. That
was the kind of woman she was.
The War Years
Before and after we married, I worked at Rohr Corporation in Chula
Vista -- defense work, helping to build aircraft components. We rented our first
place on Twin Oaks Avenue. Then in October 1943, you
arrived, Randy. Our first son. Betty was in labor at Paradise Valley
Sanitarium, and when you were born, I thought my heart would burst.
I'd never felt anything like it.
In August 1944, I enlisted in the Navy. I didn't have to -- I was
married with a kid, working in defense -- but I felt like I should do
my part. They made me a Mailman 3rd Class and sent me to the U.S.S.
Halford, a destroyer patrolling the Gulf of Alaska.
Alaska! Me, who'd moved to San Diego partly to get away from the
cold. The Navy has a sense of humor, I guess.
While I was gone, Betty moved back with her parents on Fern
Street, and her parents helped with you, Randy. I missed so much of
your first years. That's one of my big regrets -- not being there to
see you learn to walk and talk and become a little person. But that's
what war does. You sacrifice, and your family sacrifices, and you
just hope it's for something that matters.
I was discharged in February 1946, and coming home to you and your
mother -- that was everything. We moved into the 2114 Fern Street apartment, right next to the Carringers. You were over two years old by then,
Randy, and I had to get to know you almost like we were meeting for
the first time.
Building Our Life
After the Navy, I needed steady work. I got a job with Prudential
Insurance as a life insurance agent. It wasn't glamorous, but it was
solid. My debit was in Pacific Beach, and I'd go around soliciting
business and collecting monthly payments from customers. Once a week
I'd go to the office, but mostly I did the bookwork at home, at my
desk. That flexibility -- being able to work from home part of the
time -- that let me be around for you boys more than a lot of fathers
got to be.
Stan, you came along in 1946, and we moved to that second-story
flat at 2119 30th Street in 1947. That became our real home—the
place where we raised you boys. Betty's parents lived downstairs for
a while, until they moved to Point Loma in '51. That apartment wasn't
big, but it was enough. We had views of downtown and the mountains,
windows all around, and we made it work.
Scott, you came along in 1955, when your brothers were already 9
and 12. You were our surprise, our bonus baby. We turned the sun room
into your nursery -- that's where your mother used to do her art
before you arrived.
The Baseball Years
You know, after my football career ended at Dartmouth, I thought
my playing and coaching days were over. But then Stan, you started Little League
at Morley Field in 1957, and they needed coaches. I figured, why not?
I knew baseball and sports, I liked working with kids, and I wanted
to be involved in what you boys were doing.
That turned into fifteen years of managing teams. Little League,
Pony League, Colt League. Stan's teams from '57 to '64, then Scott's
teams from then until '72. Randy, you coached too, and then managed
your own teams. Some of my best memories are from those baseball
years.
Standing on that dusty field at Morley Field, teaching
eight-year-olds how to throw properly. Arguing with
umpires -- respectfully, but firmly (heh!). Watching you boys develop
as players -- Stan behind the plate as catcher, Scott on the mound and
in the infield. Seeing the life lessons sink in: teamwork,
sportsmanship, how to handle winning and losing with grace.
I wasn't patient about a lot of things in life, but I was patient
with those boys on the field. Every kid deserves a coach who believes
in them, who sees what they can become. I tried to be that.
Your mother was the ultimate baseball mom -- always encouraging,
always positive, never complaining about the crazy schedules or the
time it took. She gave me the space to do that coaching, and she gave
you boys the support to play your best.
The Padres and the Chargers
We've been through it all with San Diego sports, haven't we? I
remember taking you to minor league games at Lane Field and Westgate
Park in the '50s and early '60s. Those Pacific Coast League Padres
teams -- they were something special. Then when the Padres became a
major league team in '69, we were there for that history.
I know you boys loved going to the games at San Diego Stadium, and
sometimes I went with you. But more often, I'd listen on the radio at
home. There's something about radio baseball—you can picture it in
your mind, imagine it however you want. The announcers paint the
picture, and your imagination fills in the details. That was always
my favorite way to follow a game.
And the Chargers -- my God, what a team in those early years.
Randy, I remember you getting that summer job with them at the
training camp in '63. You were so excited. The AFL championship that
year in Baslboa Stadium was something special. We got season tickets around 1970 at San Diego Stadium, and
those were great years, going to the games with you boys and your
mother.
Friday Night Bowling
For a lot of years, Friday nights were bowling nights for me. I
was pretty good -- played in some of the highest average leagues in
San Diego. It was my thing, you know? Something that was mine, where
I could be competitive again like I'd been in my football days.
But you know what the best part of bowling night was? Saturday
mornings, when you boys would wake up to doughnuts and eclairs that
I'd picked up from the bakery on my way home Friday night. I loved
seeing your faces light up. Such a small thing, but it made me happy.
We took some great trips for bowling tournaments—Fresno,
Sacramento, San Francisco, L.A. Seeing California with the family,
even if it was centered around bowling. Though I have to say, the
best vacation we ever took was that two weeks at Bass Lake in the
summer of '54. Remember that, Randy and Stan? The cabin right on the
lake, swimming and boating, driving up to Yosemite. Scott, you
weren't born yet, but your brothers still talk about that trip.
What I Learned
I've been thinking about this a lot lately. What have I learned in
71 years? What matters?
First, you can't always control what happens to you. I couldn't
control that my football career ended. I couldn't control that Mary's
father said no. I couldn't control getting injured or the Depression
or the war. But you can control how you respond. You can decide to
keep moving forward even when everything feels impossible.
Second, sometimes the worst things that happen to you lead to the
best things in your life. If I'd married Mary, I'd have stayed in
Massachusetts. I never would have driven to California. I never would
have met your mother. You three boys wouldn't exist. My whole life
would have been completely different. So that heartbreak, that
rejection -- it hurt like hell at the time, but it led me exactly
where I needed to be.
Third, showing up matters more than being perfect. I wasn't a
college graduate like I planned to be. I didn't have the career I
thought I'd have. But I showed up for your mother every day. I showed
up for you boys—at your games, at home, graduations, in all the
little moments. I did my job at Prudential for 25 years, not because
it was exciting but because it paid the bills and supported our
family. Sometimes just being reliable and present is enough.
Fourth, let people help you. When I drove to California, broken
and lost, Marshall and Dorothy took me in. Marcia set me up with your
mother. Your mother's parents helped us when we needed it. Family,
friends, community -- you can't make it alone. Don't be too proud to
accept help when you need it.
Fifth -- and this is important, boys -- sometimes you have to take
a risk. You have to get in the car and drive, even when you don't
know exactly where you're going. You have to say "I need a girl"
even when it makes you vulnerable. You have to ask someone to marry
you even when you're scared they'll say no. Life doesn't reward the
people who play it safe all the time.
And sixth – health is very important. I now have prostate cancer
and the operation seems to have worked, but my bladder gets blocked
up occasionally.
Regrets
Of course I have regrets. I wish I'd finished college. I wish I'd
been there for more of Randy's early years instead of being on the
boat. I wish I'd been more patient sometimes, less quick to anger. I
wish I'd told your mother more often how much she meant to me -- I
think she knows, but I should say it more.
But here's the thing about regrets: you can't let them eat you up.
You acknowledge them, you learn from them, and you try to do better
going forward. That's all any of us can do.
What I'm Proud Of
I'm proud that I built a life after everything fell apart in
Massachusetts. I'm proud of the work I did at Prudential -- it wasn't
fancy, but I was good at it, it helped people, and I provided for my
family.
I'm proud of those fifteen years coaching baseball. I helped a lot
of kids learn the game and learn about life. Some of those boys still
say hello when they see me around town, and a few have told me I made
a difference in their lives. That means more to me than any trophy.
I'm proud of you three boys. Randy, you're solid and responsible
-- you've built a good life with Linda and given us Lori and Tami.
Stan, you and Sheryl had Molly, now you have Line, and you've always been hard-working, thoughtful and caring. Scott, I’m sorry that you and Susie broke
up, but I hope you see Lisa more often, and I see good things ahead
for you.
But mostly, I'm proud of the marriage your mother and I built.
Forty-one years together, boys. We've had our ups and downs like any
couple, but we've stuck together. She's been my partner, my best
friend, the person who knows me better than anyone. Everything good
in my life traces back to her.
Looking Back
You know, when I was driving across the country in December 1940,
running away from heartbreak, I couldn't see any future for myself. I
was just running. But I ended up running straight into the best life
I could have imagined.
I got to live in San Diego, this beautiful city by the ocean, for
over forty years. I got to marry a wonderful woman and raise three
good men. I got to coach baseball and go bowling and watch the Padres
and Chargers. I got to see my granddaughters born. I got to retire, work in the garden, putter in the garage, watch the boats go by on the bay, and watch sports on TV and just enjoy being
alive.
It hasn't been a fancy life or a famous life. I'm not rich, and I
haven't done anything that'll make the history books. But it's been a
good life. A full life. A life with meaning.
And it all started because I was brave enough -- or desperate
enough -- to get in that car and drive west, and lucky enough to have
a cousin who knew a teacher, and blessed enough that the teacher said
yes when I asked her to marry me.
Final Thoughts
Boys, I don't know how much more time I have. None of us knows
that. But I wanted to tell you this story -- the whole arc of it -- so
you'd know where you came from. So you'd know that your old man
wasn't always old, that he was once young and heartbroken and lost,
and he found his way.
When things get hard in your lives -- and they will get hard,
that's just how life works -- remember this: you're tougher than you
think. You can survive more than you imagine. And sometimes the path
forward isn't clear until you're already on it.
Take care of your mother for me. Take care of each other. Take
care of your wives and daughters. Show up for them the way I tried to
show up for you. Be patient with them, be present, be there.
And if you ever find yourself heartbroken in Massachusetts -- or
anywhere else -- remember that sometimes the best thing you can do is
get in the car and drive toward something new. You might not know
what you're driving toward, but trust that you'll know it when you
find it.
I found it at 4601 Terrace Drive in Kensington, when a pretty art
teacher came to dinner. And that made all the difference.
That's my story, boys. That's how I got from there to here. And I
wouldn't change a thing.
Fred Seaver died on May 26, 1983 of a heart attack in
the hospital, just a few months after sharing these memories
with his sons. He was buried at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery on
Point Loma, overlooking the Pacific Ocean and the city he loved.
================================
3) The Infographic created by Google NotebookLM for Frederick Walton's Seaver's Life Memoir is below:
4) An Audio Overview (essentially a podcast) created by the Google NotebookLM AI tool) describing this memoir of Frederick Walton Seaver in 1983 is here (click on "Audio Overview" and wait for it to load).
5) The Video Overview of Frederick Walton Seaver's memoir, created by the Google NotebookLM AI tool, is:
6) 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 create readable text in seconds, including local and national historical events and social history detail when requested.
7) This is historical fiction, based on my memories, of stories told and my own genealogical research. I don't recall my father telling us this story, but if he did, or wanted to, it might have been something like this.
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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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