Several genealogists and family historians, including me, are using Artificial Intelligence to generate story ideas and to write the stories, which are then edited for accuracy and content, and then published on websites and/or blogs.
Every ancestor has a unique life, and has their own stories based on their life experiences from birth to death. Today, I want to hear about my third great-grandfather Jonathan White (1804-1850) unique life stories. I wrote an AI-assisted biography of Jonathan in ABC Biography of #44 Jonathan White (1804-1850) of Rhode Island and Connecticut.
I attached my genealogical sketch (52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks - Week 37: #44 Jonathan White (1804-1850)) for the AI tool to use to provide the questions or ideas, and then asked the AI tool to provide the answers to the questions based on the information in my genealogical sketch, historical events, cultural background, etc.
1) Here is the AI prompt that I'm using for the free AI tool Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4 for story ideas, and a two-paragraph summary of the answers: "Please provide reminscences of Jonathan White about his life experiences in, say early 1850 while in his sickbed talking to his wife and children."
2) The Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4 response to my prompt for my 3rd great-grandfather Jonathan White (1804-1850):
Jonathan's Reminiscences
Killingly, Connecticut - April 1850
The following reminiscences were shared by Jonathan White with his family during his final illness in April 1850, as he lay in bed at their farm on Chestnut Hill in East Killingly, Connecticut. His wife Miranda sat beside him, while their sons Henry and Albert, and daughter Harriet gathered close to hear their father's memories of a life well-lived.
Memories of Childhood and Family
"Come closer, children," Jonathan said softly, his voice weakened by the lung fever that had taken hold of him. "I want to tell you about where you come from, about the people who came before you, so you'll remember when I'm gone."
He shifted slightly in bed, Miranda adjusting the quilts around him. "I was born right here in New England, you know, but in Rhode Island, in Glocester, in a house not so different from this one. My father, your grandfather Humphrey, he was a good man, a hard worker. He cleared that land with his own hands, built stone walls that are still standing today."
Jonathan's eyes grew distant as he continued. "I had so many brothers and sisters—nine of them. Can you imagine, Harriet, having eight brothers and sisters all in one house? The noise we made! My mother, your grandmother Sibel, bless her soul, she kept us all in line somehow. She was the strongest woman I ever knew, except for your mother here."
He reached out to touch Miranda's hand. "When I was just eleven years old, my father died. It was winter, cold as anything, and suddenly Mother had ten children to raise on her own. We all had to grow up fast. Benjamin and David, my older brothers, they taught me everything—how to work the land, how to care for animals, how to be a man."
Albert leaned forward. "What was it like, Father, losing your own father so young?"
Jonathan was quiet for a moment, remembering. "It was hard, son. Harder than anything I hope you boys ever have to face. But it taught me something important—that a man has to be ready to shoulder responsibility for his family. When your time comes to be the head of a household, you'll understand what I mean."
Courtship and Marriage
"Tell us about when you met Mother," Henry requested, settling more comfortably beside the bed.
Jonathan's face softened, and he looked at Miranda with the same affection he'd felt as a young man. "Your mother was the prettiest girl in Foster, Rhode Island. I was barely nineteen, working our family farm, when I first saw her at a church social. She was wearing a blue dress—do you remember that dress, Miranda?"
Miranda smiled, her eyes moist. "I remember. It was my best dress, the one my mother had made for special occasions."
"I was so nervous when I asked her father's permission to court her," Jonathan continued. "Simon Wade was a stern man, and I was just a farmer's son with more ambition than money. But Miranda, she saw something in me worth taking a chance on."
He squeezed his wife's hand gently. "We were married in 1823—seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once. Your mother came to live with me in Glocester, helped me build the life we've had together. She was nineteen, had to learn to run a household, but she took to it like she was born for it."
"What I want you children to remember," he said, looking at each of them in turn, "is that your mother and I, we built everything together. Every decision, every move, every challenge—we faced it as partners. That's what marriage should be."
Building a Life in Rhode Island
"Those early years in Glocester," Jonathan continued, "they were good years. Hard work, but good. I was determined to build something lasting, something I could pass on to my children. I bought land from my own sister Elizabeth and her husband Peleg Wood. Nancy, my sister Nancy, she stood witness to that transaction. Family helping family—that's how things were done."
He paused, catching his breath before continuing. "I remember the day Henry was born—1824, it was. You were our first child, Henry, and I was so proud, so scared. I walked the floors all night while your mother labored, and when I finally heard your cry, I knew my life had changed forever. I was no longer just Jonathan White—I was a father."
"Three years later, Albert came along. By then I felt more confident, like I knew what I was doing. And then, much later, our little Harriet arrived. You were such a surprise, sweetheart, born when your mother and I thought our family was complete."
Harriet, now fourteen, moved closer to her father's bedside. "Tell me about when I was little, Papa."
"You were the apple of my eye from the moment you drew breath," Jonathan said, reaching out to touch her hair. "Your brothers were already growing up, becoming young men, but you brought such joy back into the house. Your mother and I would sit by your cradle in the evenings, just watching you sleep, amazed that God had blessed us with such a perfect little daughter."
The Decision to Move to Connecticut
"Why did we leave Rhode Island, Father?" Albert asked. "I've always wondered about that."
Jonathan considered his answer carefully. "By the late 1830s, I could see that opportunities were better here in Connecticut. The land was good, the price was right, and I thought I could provide better for all of you. It wasn't an easy decision—leaving behind the place where I grew up, where my family was buried, where I had so many memories."
"I remember the day we loaded up the wagon," Henry said. "I was about fifteen, and I thought it was a grand adventure."
"You did," Jonathan smiled. "But your mother, she cried leaving that house in Glocester. Didn't you, Miranda? All her friends, the places where our children had been born—it was hard to leave all that behind. Still, we've been able to visit our families and friends there."
Miranda nodded. "It was one of the hardest things I ever did. But I trusted your father's judgment. He'd never steered us wrong before."
"And I was right, wasn't I?" Jonathan said with a touch of his old pride. "Look what we built here. This farm, this house—it's provided well for us. You boys have learned to work this land, and when I'm gone, you'll have something solid to build your own lives on."
Lessons from the Land
"Farming," Jonathan said, his voice growing more thoughtful, "it's taught me everything I know about life. You plant in spring, you tend through summer, you harvest in fall, you prepare for winter. Every season has its purpose, its challenges, its rewards."
He looked at his sons. "Henry, Albert, I want you to remember that the land doesn't owe you anything. You have to earn what it gives you through honest work, careful planning, and respect for what God has provided. Don't ever take shortcuts, don't ever cheat your neighbors, and always pay your debts."
"I've made mistakes," he continued. "Times when I planted too early and lost crops to late frost, times when I didn't prepare enough hay for winter, times when I trusted the wrong person in business. But every mistake taught me something, made me a better farmer, a better man."
Albert leaned forward. "What's the most important thing you've learned, Father?"
Jonathan thought for a long moment. "That everything worthwhile takes time to build. This farm, our family, the respect of our neighbors—none of it happened overnight. It took years of steady work, of doing the right thing even when it was hard, of thinking about tomorrow while dealing with today."
Hopes and Worries
"I want to talk to you about what happens after I'm gone," Jonathan said, his voice becoming more serious. "Henry, you're the oldest, but Albert, you're the one who's stayed closest to the farm. I'm counting on both of you to take care of your mother and sister."
"We will, Father," Henry assured him. "You don't need to worry about that."
"I know you will," Jonathan replied. "But I want you to understand—taking care of family isn't just about providing money or shelter. It's about staying connected, about making sure no one faces their troubles alone. Promise me you'll look after each other, no matter what life brings."
Both sons nodded solemnly.
Jonathan turned to Harriet. "And you, my dear daughter, I want you to remember that you're just as capable as any man. I've watched you help your mother run this household, seen how you handle responsibility. Don't let anyone tell you you're not capable of anything you set your mind to."
"I won't, Papa," Harriet whispered.
"Miranda," he said, turning to his wife, "you've been the best partner a man could ask for. Twenty-seven years we've been married, and not a day goes by that I don't thank God for bringing you into my life. When I'm gone, I want you to lean on our children, but I also want you to know that you're strong enough to manage whatever comes."
Final Reflections
As the April afternoon light filtered through the bedroom window, Jonathan's breathing became more labored, but he continued speaking, as if he knew time was running short.
"I want you all to know," he said slowly, "that I'm proud of the life we've built together. We've been honest people, worked hard, treated our neighbors fairly, and raised children who will do the same. That's a legacy worth leaving."
He paused, gathering strength. "When you remember me, don't think about these last weeks when I've been sick. Remember the good times—the harvest celebrations, the Sunday afternoons when we'd walk down to check on the livestock, the evenings when we'd sit around the fire and plan for the next season."
"I remember teaching you boys to plow with the oxen, how proud I was when you finally got the furrows straight. I remember Harriet's first attempts at milking the cows, how determined she was even though her hands were so small. I remember your mother singing while she worked in the garden, how she'd stop to show me some flower that was blooming or some vegetable that was ready for harvest."
Miranda wiped tears from her eyes. "Those were good times, Jonathan. We had a good life together."
"We did," he agreed. "We built something that will last. This farm will provide for our children and their children. The values we've taught—hard work, honesty, family loyalty—those will outlive all of us."
A Father's Final Wisdom
"There's one more thing I want to tell you," Jonathan said, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Tomorrow I'm going to call Deacon Covill to help me write out my will. I want to make sure everything is proper, legal, so there won't be any confusion about what I want to happen."
"Don't talk about that now, Father," Henry said uncomfortably.
"No, son, it's important," Jonathan insisted. "I've seen too many families torn apart after a father dies because he didn't make his wishes clear. I won't let that happen to us."
He took a shallow breath before continuing. "I'm going to leave the Rhode Island land to you boys to share. It's where our family started, and I want you to always remember that. The Connecticut land, your mother will have the use of it as long as she lives, and then it will come to you, provided you take good care of your sister."
"Harriet," he said, looking at his daughter, "I'm making sure you get something too. Your brothers will give you money when the time comes, and until you're married, your mother will provide for you completely. I don't want you ever to feel like you're a burden or that you don't have a place in this family."
As the day wore on and Jonathan grew more tired, the family remained close, each lost in their own thoughts about the man who had shaped their lives. He had been a good father, a faithful husband, a hard worker, and an honest neighbor. His legacy would live on in the farm he had built, the children he had raised, and the values he had instilled in them.
The next day, true to his word, Jonathan would make his will, ensuring that his family would be provided for after his death. But on this April afternoon in 1850, surrounded by the people he loved most, Jonathan White was at peace, knowing that he had lived a life of purpose and left behind something of lasting value.
3) The Audio Overview about this story from Google ContentLM is here. Here is the Video Overview created by Google NotebookLM to explain this blog post:
4) All of this AI material is historical fiction since I don't have details of every day or every year in the lives of my ancestors. Each ancestor has a unique life, and has unique family, economic, historical and social experiences. I don't know about the thoughts, education, wisdom, decisions, temperaments, emotions, figures of speech, or sound of the voice of any of my ancestors older than my parents and maternal grandparents.
My ancestors, and everyone else's, were human -- happy at times, sad at times, loving at times, imperfect at times, innocent at times, craven at times, saintly at times, perhaps evil at times. They survived childhood, found a spouse, had children, and had to support themselves and their family. They had health, social and economic challenges. I think that almost all of them did the best they could do with their life situations.
Does it matter if I am presenting these as seemingly real answers or conversations? I don't think so - because my purpose is to enable my relatives to know who their ancestors were and to help them understand the lives of their ancestors. The AI-generated responses are much better than any response I have in my memory bank or that I can dream up.
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