I wrote an AI-assisted couple biographyfor Elijah McKnew and Jane (Whittle) McKnew in ABC Biography of Elijah Pickrell McKnew (1836-1912) and Jane (Whittle) McKnew (1847-1921) Family of San Francisco, California based on the genealogical information at hand.
I wondered what Jane (Whittle) McKnew might say in a life memoir to her children and grandchildren.
1) Based on the genealogical sketch, I requested Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 to create a memoir told by Abigail Seaver about her life in 1867. The prompt was: "Please write a life memoir for Jane (Whittle) McKnew based on the attached biography, as she might tell to her children and grandchildren in early 1921."
2) The AI Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 memoir (lightly edited for accuracy) is:
My Life Story: A Grandmother's Memories
As told by Jane Whittle McKnew to her grandchildren, January 1921
My dear grandchildren,
I sit here at 4137 19th Street, in the home your grandfather and I made together, and I feel the weight of seventy-three years pressing gently upon my shoulders. The doctor says my time may be short, and so I want to leave you these words—a gift of memory, so you might know where you came from and the journey that brought you here.
A Child of Two Worlds
I was born on the 2nd of August, 1847, in Sydney, New South Wales, Australia—a place so distant from this San Francisco home that it might as well be another world entirely. My parents, Alexander Whittle and Rachel Morley, had married in Bolton-le-Moor in England in 1840, and in the great spirit of adventure that marked their generation, they sailed for Australia that very same year. By the time I was born, they had a publick house on Sussex Street in Sydney. My oldest sister, Elizabeth, was born in England before they left, but the rest of us—William, Joseph, John, me, and little Margaret—we were all children of Sydney.
Those early years are like fragments of a dream to me now. I remember the warmth of the Australian sun, so different from the fog that rolls through these San Francisco streets. I remember my mother's voice, though I can barely recall her face now after all these years. But mostly, I remember loss.
My brother William Alfred died when he was just a baby, before I was born. Then John, who was two years older than me, passed away when he was only seven. And Margaret, my baby sister, lived less than a year. Death was a frequent visitor in those days, my dears, and we learned early not to take a single day for granted.
The Gold Rush and a New Beginning
When I was just three years old, in 1850, my father caught the gold fever that was sweeping the world. He left Sydney for California, joining thousands of others who dreamed of striking it rich in the American goldfields. I have no memory of him leaving, nor of seeing him again, for he died in 1853 when I was only six years old. My mother must have grieved terribly, left alone in Sydney with four children to care for and a pub to manage.
But your great-great-grandmother Rachel was a woman of remarkable courage. In 1852, she gathered up what remained of our family -- my sister Elizabeth, my brother Joseph, and me, just five years old -- and we made that long, terrifying voyage across the Pacific Ocean. Can you imagine? A 30-year-old woman with three young children, sailing to a foreign land where she knew no one, hoping only to find the man who had gone before us, not knowing he would soon be gone forever.
We arrived in San Francisco, and the 1852 census found us there—though they wrote our name as "Wadle" instead of Whittle. Such things happened often in those days, when census takers relied on their ears rather than proper documentation. I was listed as five years old, born in New South Wales, and San Francisco became my new home. My mother married again and we children didn’t see her very often.
Growing Up in Gold Country
After my father died at Angel's Camp, we children had to grow up quickly. My sister Elizabeth married William Baker Ray in 1855, when she was just sixteen, and they moved to the mining districts. I spent my teenage years in Tuolumne County, living with Elizabeth and William, with brother Joseph nearby, learning what it meant to be a woman on the frontier.
Those were rough days, my dears. Tuolumne was a mining country, filled with men seeking their fortunes, with few families and even fewer women. We worked hard—cooking, cleaning, taking in laundry, doing whatever was needed to survive. There was no time for fancy schooling or leisurely pursuits. Life was about endurance and making do with what little we had.
My mother Rachel visited us in Tuolumne County occasionally, but she died in 1861 in Sacramento, when I was just fourteen. I was an orphan then, truly alone except for my siblings. But your great-aunt Elizabeth took care of me, and I am forever grateful for her kindness during those difficult years.
Meeting Your Grandfather
It was in Tuolumne County that I met Elijah Pickrell McKnew. The 1860 census shows us both there—me living with Elizabeth and William, and Elijah was working as a miner and living in a nearby house. I think I caught his eye when we passed each other on the dusty streets, or in the shops of that small mining town of Tuttletown, not knowing that our futures would intertwine.
Elijah was nine years older than me, born in Maryland in 1836. He had come to California seeking the same dreams as everyone else—a better life, opportunity, maybe even riches. He was a kind man, a hard worker, and when he asked me to marry him, I said yes without hesitation.
We were married on November 12, 1865. I was eighteen years old, and he was twenty-nine. Some might say I was too young, but in those days, it was quite common. And I can tell you truthfully, my dear ones, that I never regretted that decision for a single day of the forty-seven years we spent together.
Building Our Family
Oh, how I wish you could have known your grandfather in his prime! He was not a tall man—only about five feet seven inches—but he was strong and determined. He had brown eyes that would later turn hazel, and a mole by his right eye that I grew to love. His hair turned from medium brown to distinguished gray over our years together.
We started our married life in Tuolumne County, where Elijah continued to work, first as a miner and then as a farmer in Tuttletown. Those first years were filled with hope and hard work. By 1870, we had managed to acquire property worth one thousand dollars—a considerable achievement for a young couple.
But our greatest wealth was not in land or money. It was in our children.
Your mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts—they came one after another, each one a blessing, each one a miracle. Allethia Jane was born first in 1867, named after Elijah's mother who had died when he was just a boy. Then came Alfred Rodney in 1869, and Henry Lee in 1870.
We had twelve children in all, though we lost one in infancy. Eleven of our children survived and grew strong. After those first three in Tuolumne came Alice Louise in 1872, and then we moved to San Francisco, where Lilly was born in 1876, George Morgan in 1879, Belle Alberta in 1882, Edna Catherine in 1884, May Jane in 1886, Leland Joseph in 1889, and finally little Gladys Hazel in 1892, when I was forty-five years old.
People often ask me how I managed it—eleven children, all those mouths to feed, all those personalities to nurture. The truth is, you simply do what needs to be done. There were hard days, certainly. Days when money was tight, when someone was sick, when I was so exhausted I could barely stand. But there were also moments of such profound joy that they made every difficulty worthwhile.
Our San Francisco Years
Sometime around 1876, we made the decision to leave the mining country behind and move to San Francisco. The easy gold was gone, and the city offered more opportunities for steady work. We settled near 19th Street and Castro Street, in a neighborhood that was growing and changing along with the city itself.
Your grandfather worked so many different jobs over the years. He was a teamster, driving horses and wagons through the city streets. He worked as a driver, a salesman, a fruit dealer. In his later years, he sold oysters. He never complained about the work, never thought himself too good for honest labor. He did what he needed to do to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table.
I spent my days raising you children, cooking, cleaning, mending clothes, and trying to stretch every penny as far as it would go. We owned our home at 4131 19th Street -- later the number changed to 4103, back to 4131 and now I live next door at 4137. The city kept renumbering the streets, but it's the same house where your grandfather and I built our life together.
As you children grew older, some of you went to work to help the family. I remember Edna working as a milliner, creating beautiful hats for the fine ladies of San Francisco. And young Gladys became a stenographer, working in an office -- imagine that! My daughter, working in an office like a modern young woman. Times were changing, and I was grateful that you children had opportunities I never dreamed of as a girl.
The Day the Earth Shook
I must tell you about April 18, 1906—a date that will be forever burned into my memory. It was early morning, just after five o'clock, and most of us were still asleep when the world began to shake.
The earthquake hit with such violence that I thought the house would collapse around us. The noise was like thunder, but it came from below, from the very earth itself. Things fell from shelves, the walls groaned and cracked, and we scrambled to get outside, not knowing if this was the end of everything.
But that was just the beginning. As the shaking finally stopped, we looked out across the city and saw smoke beginning to rise. Fires had broken out all over San Francisco, and they were spreading fast. For three days, we watched as the fire consumed our beautiful city, block by block, moving closer and closer to our home.
We evacuated, bringing what we could carry into the street. Your grandfather and your uncles moved our stove outside—can you imagine? We set it up right there on the street, along with whatever furniture and belongings we could save. A photographer captured that moment, and we still have that photograph. You can see the house number—4131—above the door, and us standing there with our lives piled up around us, wondering if we would have a home to return to.
The fire came to within one block of our house before they finally stopped it. One block! We were among the lucky ones. So many people lost everything—their homes, their possessions, even their lives. Over three thousand people died in that earthquake and fire.
Our house was damaged but standing. We repaired it, and we stayed. San Francisco was our home, and we would not be driven away. The city rebuilt itself, and so did we.
The Children Grow and Marry
One by one, you children grew up and left home to start families of your own. It was bittersweet, as any mother will tell you—proud to see you make your way in the world, but sad to have the house grow quiet.
Allethia married John William Runnels in 1887. Alfred married Alice McCann in 1889. Henry married Anna Marie Goff around 1892. Alice Louise married Phineas Durkee Hayes about 1895. Lilly married George Ludwig Olsen, and later Charles Aloysius Gardiner. Belle Alberta married George Frederick Samwell, and later Paul Ewald. Edna Catherine married Paul Frederick Schaffner. May Jane married William Charles Kenealy. Leland married Agnes Matilde Hansen. And little Gladys married Henry F. Rose.
George Morgan, bless him, never married but has been a devoted son. He's living in Kern County now, pursuing his own path.
Each wedding brought joy, and soon the grandchildren started arriving. How I loved being a grandmother! To hold those tiny babies, knowing they carried forward the blood of both your grandfather and me, the legacy of Maryland and Australia, of mining camps and city streets—it filled my heart to overflowing. And now they are growing bigger and have a whole future ahead of them.
Loss and Love
The hardest day of my life—apart from losing my dear Elijah—was when we buried our daughter May Jane in 1918. She was only thirty-two years old, with her whole life ahead of her, and she was taken from us by the terrible influenza that swept through the world that year. A mother should never have to bury her child. It goes against the natural order of things.
But even in that grief, I was surrounded by love -- by our children, by my grandchildren, by the family we had built together. That is what sustains us through the dark times, my dears. Family. Love. The knowledge that we are not alone.
Your Grandfather's Final Years
By 1910, your grandfather and I had been married for forty-four years. We owned our home free and clear—no more mortgage. We had raised our eleven children, and most of you were settled with families of your own. Your grandfather could finally rest a bit, though he never truly stopped working. It wasn't in his nature to be idle.
He died on April 4, 1912, just six days past his seventy-sixth birthday. The doctor said it was his time, but I wasn't ready to let him go. How could I be, after forty-seven years together? We had been partners in everything—in struggle and success, in raising our children, in building our life.
The funeral was well-attended. All our children came, of course, and so many friends and neighbors. The notice in the Chronicle listed all of the children -- Alfred, Henry, George, Leland, Gladys, Allethia, Alice, Lilly, Belle, Edna, and May. My heart swelled with both grief and pride to see the family we had created together.
Final Thoughts
Now I am seventy-three years old, and I know my time is growing short. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my breath comes harder these days, in the fatigue that settles over me like a heavy blanket.
But I am not afraid. I have lived a full life—fuller than that little girl from Sydney could have ever imagined. I crossed an ocean, survived the deaths of my parents, married a good man, raised eleven children, survived an earthquake and fire, and lived to see my grandchildren grow.
When I am gone, I will rest beside your grandfather at Cypress Lawn Cemetery. We will be together again, just as we always were in life.
I want you to remember this: Life is not easy. It never has been, and it never will be. You will face hardships and losses. You will know grief and struggle. But if you face these challenges with courage, with love for your family, with determination to do what's right—then you will have lived a life worth living.
Remember where you came from. Remember that you carry within you the blood of pioneers and immigrants, of miners and merchants, of England, Australia and Maryland, of Sydney and San Francisco. Remember that your grandmother crossed an ocean as a child and built a life in a new land. Remember that your grandfather worked every day of his life to provide for his family.
And remember that love endures. Your grandfather and I loved each other for forty-seven years, and that love created all of you, and you in turn have created your own families. That is the greatest legacy anyone can leave—not money or property, but love that multiplies and spreads through the generations.
Take care of each other. Be kind to one another. Tell your children about their great-grandmother Jane, who came from Sydney, and their great-grandfather Elijah, who came from Maryland, and how they met in the goldfields of California and built a family that will endure long after I am gone.
I love you all, my dear grandchildren. I always have, and I always will.
Your loving grandmother, Jane (Whittle) McKnew
January 1921: 4137 19th Street, San Francisco
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3) An Audio Overview (essentially a podcast) created by the Google NotebookLM AI tool) describing this memoir of Jane (Whittle) Mcknew in 1921 is here (click on "Audio Overview" and wait for it to load).
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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