I wrote an AI-assisted ABC biography for the family of my wife's grandparents Paul Frederick and Edna Catherine (McKnew) Schaffner in ABC Biography of Paul Frederick Schaffner (1879-1934) and Edna Catherine McKnew (1884-1974) Family of San Francisco, California. based on my genealogical research over 38 years.
I wondered what Edna (McKnew) Schaffner might have told her grandchildren in a life memoir in 1972.
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I requested Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 to "Please write a life memoir for Edna (McKnew) Schaffner based on the attached biography, as she might tell her grandchildren in 1972."
The AI Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.6 memoir (edited for accuracy and completeness) is:
My Life: A Story for My Grandchildren
As told by Edna Catherine (McKnew) Schaffner in 1972
My dears, you've asked me to tell you about my life, and I suppose at eighty-eight years old, I've earned the right to reminisce. Pull up your chairs and let me tell you about San Francisco, about my family, and about the journey that brought me to this house on Rivoli Street where you've grown up knowing your "Oo Hoo."
The San Francisco of My Childhood
I was born in 1884, in a San Francisco that was so different from the city you know today. My father, Elijah Pickrell McKnew, was an oysterman—he worked down at the waterfront, harvesting oysters from the bay and selling them to restaurants and markets throughout the city. My mother, Jane Whittle McKnew, came all the way from Australia as a little girl. She was born there and came to America when she was just a child. Can you imagine? Coming across the entire ocean at that age? She was a remarkable woman, my mother, and she taught me everything about managing a household, about stretching every penny, and about the importance of family.
I was the eighth child of eleven children—eight! That means I grew up in a house that was always full of noise and activity and love. My oldest siblings—Allethia, Alfred, Henry, and Alice—were already married and starting their own families by the time I was thirteen. Having older sisters who were wives and mothers gave me something precious: I could see what my own future might look like. I could watch how they managed their households, how they raised their children, how they navigated marriage. It was like having living instruction in how to become a woman.
My childhood home was at 4131 19th Street in the Castro District. That big house! I can still see it so clearly—the street number above the front door, the way the light came through the windows, the feeling of constantly being needed, constantly being part of something larger than myself.
With so many siblings, there was always work to do. I helped my mother with everything—the cooking, the cleaning, the mending, the laundry. Laundry day was a full day's work, let me tell you. We didn't have washing machines like you have now. Everything was scrubbed by hand on a washboard, boiled in great pots, wrung out by hand until your arms ached, hung on the lines to dry, and then ironed with heavy flat irons heated on the stove. With eleven children producing dirty clothes, laundry day was never-ending.
But the work didn't feel like drudgery, you see. It was simply what we did. We were a family, and we took care of each other. My mother showed me how to make soups and stews, how to bake bread, how to prepare oysters in a dozen different ways since my father's work brought fresh oysters home regularly. I learned to sew and mend, to keep a clean house, to care for younger siblings. These skills would serve me well my entire life.
Learning a Trade
By the time I was sixteen, I was working as a milliner—making and decorating women's hats. This was skilled work, you understand. A hat wasn't just something you threw on your head. It was a work of art. It required taste, an eye for color and style, and the ability to work with your hands in precise ways. You had to understand fashion, know what was coming, what would suit different faces and different occasions.
I loved that work. There was something deeply satisfying about creating something beautiful and practical at the same time. A woman might come into the shop discouraged about her appearance, and you could create or modify a hat that made her feel beautiful, confident, ready to face the world.
The millinery trade also gave me something my father's work as an oysterman couldn't—a degree of independence. I was earning my own money, but living with my parents and siblings. I was learning a skill that was respected. I was part of the working world, even though I was a woman in an era when women were expected to stay home.
The Earthquake
I'll never forget April nineteenth, nineteen hundred and six. I was twenty-two years old, and I had not yet married my Paul. But that morning—that terrible morning—the earth itself began to shake.
I've never experienced anything like it before or since. The ground moved beneath our feet like the earth was alive. It felt like the whole world was coming apart. Buildings crumbled. People screamed. And the fires—oh God, the fires that came afterward. For three days the city burned. For three days we didn't know if we would lose everything.
My family's house on 19th Street survived. Can you imagine? With the fires burning around it, with people losing everything, our house stood. We had to repair it, yes, but we were among the fortunate ones. My mother was so grateful. I remember her looking at that house, at the street number above the door, and saying a prayer of thanksgiving.
We have a photograph of our family taken right after the earthquake, standing on the street with our stove and other household goods pulled out of the house. You can still see the house number clearly—4131. That photograph reminds us always of how close we came to losing everything. Dear grandchildren – please save that photograph!
My Paul
I want to tell you about your grandfather Paul, because he was a good man and I loved him very much, even though our time together was shorter than I would have wished.
I met Paul in the ways young people met back then—through family, through church, through the community. He was the son of Herman Schaffner, a man who was involved in fraternal organizations. Paul was handsome and hardworking and kind. He had ambition. He wanted to build something, to provide for a family.
We married on June twenty-fourth, nineteen hundred and six. Can you believe it? Two months after the earthquake. The city was still smoking. Thousands of people were homeless and living in tents in Golden Gate Park. The future seemed uncertain. But Paul and I looked at each other and decided to have faith. We decided to begin our life together anyway.
The ceremony was small and simple—performed by a Methodist clergyman, with my sister May and Paul's brother Herman as witnesses. I was twenty-two years old. Paul was twenty-six. We were young and hopeful, and we were going to build a life together in the city we both loved.
Paul worked his way up in the oil company—he started as a stenographer and became a manager. He was a hard worker, and he was respected by the people he worked with. He was also deeply involved in fraternal organizations—the Masons, the Shrine. These organizations were about more than just fraternity; they were about service to the community, about charity, about brotherhood.
But I want you to understand something about your grandfather. He wasn't just a businessman. He was a man of principle. He believed in helping others. He believed in being part of something larger than himself. He passed those values on to your mothers, and I hope you'll carry them forward as well.
My Daughters
Our first daughter, Muriel Jean, was born in nineteen hundred and nine. Oh, how happy we were! A beautiful baby girl. Then Edna May came along in nineteen hundred and thirteen. I was a mother now, and it was the most important work I'd ever done.
Paul and I worked together to raise our daughters with good values. We wanted them to be educated, to be kind, to understand that they had responsibilities to family and community. We wanted them to marry well and be happy.
Muriel married Samuel Blair Mertes in nineteen hundred and thirty. They had one daughter, Jean in nineteen hundred and thirty three, who was the light of my life. After Paul passed away in nineteen thirty-four, Muriel and her family came to live with me here at 46 Rivoli Street, and Jean grew up right here in this house. I taught her things. I loved her with all my heart. Jean married William duBos in 1955, and they have two children – Michelle born in 1961 and William born in 19658.
Edna May married Leo Severt Leland in nineteen hundred and thirty-seven. They have two children, Linda born in 1942 and Paul born in 1945. Linda married Randy Seaver in 1970 and I went to the wedding in Chula Vista with Lee, Edna and Paul!
I was a grandmother now, and then a great-grandmother, and I loved all my grandchildren and great-grands fiercely.
Paul's Passing
In nineteen thirty-four, when Paul was only fifty-five years old, his heart gave out. It was sudden, and it was devastating. One day he was here, and the next day he was gone.
I was fifty years old when I became a widow. I won't lie to you—it was hard. We had been married for twenty-eight years. I had depended on him. I loved him. But I had my daughters, and I had my grandchildren, and I had my faith. I also had the knowledge that I was capable—I had managed households, I had worked, I had raised children. I knew I could survive this.
After Paul died, Muriel and her family moved in with me permanently. This house on Rivoli Street became our home together. We all helped each other. I helped raise Jean. Blair worked as a pressman. I did what I could to help manage the household. We were a family taking care of each other, just as my own family had done when I was young.
My Later Years
These past forty years without your grandfather have been long, but they have been filled with meaning because of you—my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren.
I've been a member of the Order of the Eastern Star for sixty-three years. Do you know what that is? It's an organization for women connected to the Masons—an organization that emphasizes charity, truth, and loving-kindness. I've served in that organization, and I've been proud to be part of a group of women dedicated to helping others and supporting each other.
I've spent these years here at 46 Rivoli Street. I've tended my garden where I grow Cecil Bruner roses—those delicate pink roses. Do you remember me bringing them to you? I loved bringing those roses to my daughters and granddaughters every week! A rose is a simple thing, but it's beautiful, and it says "I love you" without words.
I've watched you children grow up. I've attended your birthday celebrations, weddings and your family gatherings. I've tried to be present in your lives, to show you what it means to love a family, to be part of something that lasts.
When you came to the door, you would call out "Yoo-Hoo!" and so you called me "Oo Hoo" when you were small. That became my name to you. That nickname makes me happier than you know because it represents something simple and pure—a grandmother greeting her grandchildren, welcoming them into her home and her heart.
What I Want You to Know
Now that I'm eighty-eight years old, and my life is drawing toward its close, I want to tell you what I've learned. Life is not always easy. The earth can shake beneath your feet—literally, as it did in nineteen hundred and six, and figuratively, as it does when loss comes to you. But you survive. You go on. You hold onto the people you love, and you build something meaningful.
Work hard. Whether you're an oysterman like my father or a milliner like I was or a businessman like your grandfather Paul, or a pressman like Muriel’s Blair, or a service station manager like Edna’s Lee work hard at what you do. Take pride in it. Do it well.
Love your family. My family has been my greatest source of strength and joy. The aunts and uncles who were there for each other, the siblings I grew up with, the husband I cherished, the daughters I'm so proud of, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren who have filled my life with light. Family is everything.
Help each other. When someone needs you, be there. When you need help, ask for it. We're not meant to go through life alone.
Find beauty where you can. A rose in a garden. A moment of laughter with people you love. A well-cooked meal shared with family. The beauty of San Francisco—the fog rolling in, our bridges, the hills, the city lights. Beauty sustains us.
Be kind. Be honest. Live by your principles even when it's hard. Remember that the world is bigger than yourself, and you have a responsibility to help make it better.
And hold onto hope. Even when the earth shakes, even when you lose someone you love, even when times are hard—hold onto hope. The future is still ahead of you. There is still joy to experience, love to give and receive, meaning to create.
San Francisco
I want to close by saying something about San Francisco, the city that has been my home my entire life. I was born here. I've watched it grow from a rough frontier town into a great city. I've lived through the earthquake and fire that nearly destroyed it. I've raised my family here. I've worked here. I've loved here.
This city is in my bones. The fog, the hills, the waterfront where my father worked, the downtown where Paul worked, the neighborhoods where I've lived and raised my children, the people—the wonderful, diverse, hardworking people who make this city what it is. San Francisco is more than a place to me. It's part of my identity. It's part of who I am.
I hope you'll love this city as I have. I hope you'll appreciate what it took to build it and maintain it. I hope you'll be part of the community and contribute to making it better.
Closing
So there you have it—the story of my life. From the daughter of an oysterman in eighteen-eighty-four to a widow and great-grandmother in nineteen seventy-two. A life lived in San Francisco. A life lived for family. A life lived with purpose and love.
I won't be here forever. My body is tiring. But I want you to know that everything I've done, everything I've been, has been for you—for my daughters, my grandchildren, and now my great-grandchildren. You are my legacy. You are what makes my life meaningful.
When you see a Cecil Bruner rose, think of me. When someone calls out "Yoo-Hoo," smile and think of the love in that greeting. When you face difficulties, remember that we McKnews and we Schaffners are strong—we've weathered earthquakes and fires and loss and loneliness, and we've survived. You can too.
I love you all so very much. That's what I want you to remember most of all. Your "Oo Hoo" loves you.
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Edna Catherine McKnew Schaffner, November 1972
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Edna Catherine "Oo Hoo" Schaffner died on November 11, 1974 at her home on Rivoli Street at age 90 years. t. She is buried at Cypress Lawn Cemetery in Colma, California, beside her beloved Paul.
The Video Overview of Edna (McKnew) Schaffner's life memoir, created by the Google NotebookLM AI tool, is:
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
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