I wrote an AI-assisted couple biography for my third great-grandfather John Richman (1788-1867) in ABC Biography of #10 Thomas Richmond (1848-1917) of Wiltshire, England and New England, based on my genealogical research over 38 years.
I wondered what Thomas Richmond might say in a life memoir to his grandchildren in 1917.
(Thomas and Julia (White) Richmond Family in about 1898 - from family sources,
colorized by MyHeritage tools)
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 Thomas Richmond based on the attached biography, as he might tell to his grandchildren in 1917."
2) The AI Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 memoir (lightly edited for accuracy) is:
A Grandfather's Story
Thomas Richmond's Life Memoir to His
Grandchildren
Clinton, Massachusetts - Early 1917
My dear grandchildren,
Your grandmother Annie has asked me to tell some stories from my
long life, so that you children—and perhaps your own children
someday—might know something of where you came from and the world
I've seen change so remarkably over these nearly seventy years. I
find myself here in Clinton with Annie and Walter, and while my
strength is not what it once was, my memory remains clear enough to
take you back to a time and place that must seem impossibly distant
to you now.
The England I Knew
I was born Thomas Richman—not Richmond, mind you, but Richman—on
June 16, 1848, in a small village called Hilperton in Wiltshire,
England. It's difficult now to conjure the feelings of that place,
for I was only eight years old when we left, but certain images
remain vivid in my mind even today. I remember stone cottages with
thatched roofs, narrow lanes where carts would rumble past, and the
ever-present smell of coal smoke rising from chimneys. My father,
James Richman, worked as a coal merchant laborer—hard, dirty work
that left him exhausted at day's end but put food on our table.
My mother, Hannah Rich, was a woolen weaver. I can still picture
her at her loom—though the image has surely been burnished by
time—her hands moving with practiced ease as threads transformed
into cloth. She would sing while she worked, old songs I've long
since forgotten the words to, though sometimes the melodies still
drift through my mind. It's curious, isn't it, how my entire life
ended up in the woolen mills, just as hers was? I like to think I
inherited her understanding of wool and fiber, though her craft was
far more intimate than the great carding machines I would later
oversee.
I had a younger brother James, born a year after me, and we were
thick as thieves in those early years. The 1851 Census—you see,
even then the government was keeping track of everyone—shows the
two of us living with our parents in what I'm sure was a cramped
cottage, though it seemed large enough to a small boy. We had little
by way of material possessions, but we had each other, and the
village community was close-knit in a way that's perhaps difficult to
understand in America, where people come and go with such frequency.
The Great Crossing
In November of 1856, everything changed. My parents had made the
momentous decision to leave England and seek a new life in America.
I'm not certain I fully understood what this meant at the time—I
was only eight years old—but I remember the excitement mixed with
fear, the hurried preparations, the tearful goodbyes to relatives I
would never see again.
We traveled to Bristol, a great port city, and there we boarded a
ship called the Osprey. I remember standing on the dock, looking up
at this enormous vessel with its tall masts and complex rigging, and
feeling both terrified and thrilled. My mother held baby Emma in her
arms, while my siblings James, Louisa, and Elizabeth clustered around
her skirts. My father wasn't with us on that journey—he had gone
ahead some months earlier to find work and lodging—so my mother had
the responsibility of shepherding us five children across the
Atlantic.
The voyage itself... well, I'll spare you the worst details, but
it was no pleasure cruise. We were crowded below decks with dozens of
other families, all seeking the same dream of a better life. The ship
pitched and rolled with every wave, and many passengers—including
my poor mother—were dreadfully seasick. The smell below decks was
something fierce. We had little to eat beyond hardtack and whatever
thin soup the ship's cook could manage. At night, I would lie in the
darkness listening to the creaking of the ship's timbers and wonder
if we would ever see land again.
But we did, of course. On November 14, 1856, we arrived in New
York City. I stood on the deck as we entered the harbor, and the
sight of that city—even then so much larger than any place I had
known—filled me with wonder. Buildings stretched as far as I could
see, and the harbor was filled with ships from every corner of the
world. My father was there to meet us, and I remember how my mother
wept with relief to see him safe and well.
Becoming American
We didn't stay in New York but traveled on to Rhode Island, where
my father had found work in Burrillville, a mill town in Providence
County. This was to be our new home, and we had to learn new ways of
doing everything. The American accent confused me at first—I spoke
with a proper Wiltshire accent, you see, and the other children
sometimes mocked me for it. "Little Englishman," they'd
call me, and not always kindly. But children adapt quickly, and
within a year or two, I sounded almost as American as anyone.
By 1860, we were well established. I was twelve years old and
attending school—a tremendous privilege that I don't think I fully
appreciated at the time. In England, working-class children like us
rarely received much formal education. My father was working as a
farm laborer while he learned his way in this new country, and my
mother was busy managing our growing household. They kept having
babies, you see—my youngest American-born sister Hannah was just
two years old that year.
These were formative years for me. I was growing up during the
Civil War, though Rhode Island felt distant from the worst of the
fighting. The textile mills where I would later work were booming,
producing cloth for Union Army uniforms. I would walk past these
great brick buildings with their tall smokestacks and watch the
workers streaming in and out at the change of shifts, never imagining
that I would spend my entire life in such places.
By the time I was fourteen or fifteen, I was working in the mills
myself. We needed the income, as all large families did, and formal
schooling gave way to practical education. My first job was as a
general helper—sweeping floors, carrying materials, running errands
for the skilled workers. But I watched everything carefully. I asked
questions when the overseers weren't too busy to answer. I learned.
Finding Your Grandmother
In 1867, when I was twenty years old and working as a woolen mill
worker in Connecticut, I met a young woman named Juliet White at a
church social. She was just my age—her birthday was only three
months after mine—and she was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen.
More than that, though, she was accomplished. She could play the
piano and organ beautifully, she sang in the church choir, and she
had a kindness about her that drew people in.
I was terribly nervous when I first spoke to her. Here I was, an
immigrant mill worker with rough hands and no formal education beyond
the basics, and there was this refined young lady who could make
music that sounded like angels. But Juliet—your grandmother—she
didn't see me as beneath her. She saw something worthwhile in this
young Englishman who was trying to make his way in America.
We were married on June 20, 1868, in Killingly, Connecticut. It
was a beautiful summer day, and I remember thinking that I was the
luckiest man alive. We started our life together in Stonington,
Connecticut, where I had work at a woolen mill. We had very little—a
few sticks of furniture, some pots and pans, our clothes, and each
other. But we were young and in love and full of hope for the future.
Building Our Family
The following year, 1869, your grandmother Annie was born. I held
that tiny baby in my arms and felt a love so fierce it almost
frightened me. I was a father now, with all the responsibility that
entailed. I vowed that day that I would work as hard as necessary to
provide for my family.
Children came regularly after that. Your aunt or uncle—depending
on which of you is reading this—Frederic was born in 1870. Then
Everett in 1875, Grace in 1876, Emily in 1879, Charles in 1880,
Bessie in 1882, Edwin in 1883, and finally James in 1886. Nine
children in all, spread across seventeen years. Our home was always
full of noise and activity—babies crying, children playing,
teenagers arguing, your grandmother at the piano, and me trying to
find a quiet corner to read the newspaper.
I won't lie to you and say it was easy. Raising nine children on a
mill worker's wages required constant economizing. Your grandmother
performed miracles with our limited budget, making clothes last,
stretching food to feed all those hungry mouths, and somehow still
maintaining a home that was clean and welcoming. She never
complained, at least not where I could hear her, though I knew the
work exhausted her.
We faced tragedy too. In 1875, little Frederic died at just five
years old. He had been sick with a fever, and despite the doctor's
best efforts and our desperate prayers, he slipped away from us. I
cannot adequately describe the pain of losing a child. Your
grandmother and I held each other and wept, and for weeks afterward,
the house felt empty despite having other children. You never truly
get over such a loss; you only learn to carry it with you.
My Life's Work
While your grandmother managed our home and family, I was building
my career in the woolen mills. I started as a lowly mill worker, but
I was determined to advance. I studied every aspect of the wool
processing—from the raw wool coming off the sheep's back to the
finished yarn ready for weaving. I paid particular attention to
carding, which is the process of combing and aligning the wool fibers
before spinning. It's exacting work that requires both technical
knowledge and a feel for the material.
By my mid-twenties, I had worked my way up to overseer. This was a
significant achievement for someone without formal education, and I
was proud of it. An overseer is responsible for an entire
department—managing the workers, maintaining the machinery,
ensuring quality control, and keeping production running smoothly. It
required me to be part engineer, part teacher, part disciplinarian,
and part diplomat.
My first position as overseer was with the Westerly Woolen Company
in Rhode Island. From there, I moved to various mills throughout
Connecticut and Massachusetts, always advancing, always building my
reputation. I became known throughout New England as one of the
finest woolen carders in the region—a recognition that meant a
great deal to me. I had started as an immigrant child who could
barely speak English, and I had risen through skill and determination
to become a respected professional.
I joined the National Association of Woolen and Worsted Overseers,
which allowed me to meet other professionals and stay current with
new developments in textile manufacturing. Your uncle Walter, Annie's
husband, is now the secretary of that organization, and I'm proud to
have helped pave the way for his involvement in the industry.
The mills themselves changed dramatically over my fifty years in
the business. When I started, many were still water-powered
operations with relatively simple machinery. By the time I retired,
we had massive steam-powered factories with hundreds of electric
lights, complex machinery, and hundreds of employees. I witnessed the
complete transformation of American textile manufacturing, and I was
part of that transformation.
Moving Through New England
Over the years, we moved several times, following the work. We
lived in Stonington, Killingly, Leominster, and finally settled in
Putnam, Connecticut. Each move was an upheaval—packing up the
household, saying goodbye to neighbors and friends, helping the
children adjust to new schools and communities. But textile workers
went where the work was, and we made the best of it.
Putnam became our final home, and it was there that we became
deeply involved in St. Philip's Episcopal Church. Your grandmother
played the organ there for many years, and I directed the choir.
Sunday mornings were special times—gathering with our children in
our Sunday best, walking to church together, singing hymns that I had
first learned as a child in England. The church gave us a spiritual
foundation and a community that sustained us through both good times
and bad.
I still remember the Sunday services, with sunlight streaming
through the stained glass windows, the smell of candles and old wood,
and the sound of your grandmother's skillful playing filling the
sanctuary. After church, we would gather with other families, the
children running around the churchyard while the adults talked about
crops, politics, and mill gossip. These were the rhythms of our
life—work, family, church, community.
Becoming an American
In 1890, I took a step that I had been planning for decades: I
became a naturalized citizen of the United States. I traveled to the
Superior Court in Putnam on September 10th and stood before the
Honorable S.A. Robinson. There, I renounced my allegiance to Queen
Victoria and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and I
swore to support the Constitution of the United States.
It was an emotional moment. I was forty-two years old, with a
wife, nine children, and an established career. I had lived in
America for thirty-four years—far longer than I had lived in
England. Yet taking that oath meant formally severing my connection
to the land of my birth. I thought of my parents, who had made the
brave decision to leave England so their children could have better
opportunities. I thought of that eight-year-old boy on the Osprey,
crossing the Atlantic into an unknown future. And I thought of the
man I had become—an American in every way that mattered.
The naturalization document noted that I had come to America as a
minor and that "it was then and ever since has been his
intention to become a citizen of the United States." That was
true. Even as a child, I had embraced this country and its promise.
Now it was official.
Sorrows and Joys
Life brings both sunshine and shadow, and we experienced our share
of each. I've already mentioned little Frederic's death in 1875. That
was our first great sorrow, but not our last.
In 1911, our son Charles died at just thirty-one years old. He had
moved to California and was doing well there, and then suddenly we
received the terrible telegram. Your grandmother and I had to grapple
with the unnatural grief of outliving our child. Charles was a grown
man with a wife and child of his own, and yet he was still our boy,
and we mourned him deeply.
My mother, Hannah, died in 1911 and then my father died in 1912.
Then came 1913, a year I can barely bring myself to discuss even now.
your grandmother's health began to fail. She had been fighting breast
cancer, though she had hidden the extent of her suffering from most
of the family, not wanting to burden us with worry. On October 1,
1913, my beloved Julia died. We had been married for forty-five
years. She had been my partner in everything—raising our children,
building our home, navigating life's challenges. The house felt empty
without her, even though I wasn't living there alone. I missed the
sound of her at the piano, her gentle voice, her steady presence. I
miss her still.
Before we had even begun to process that grief, our youngest son
James—just twenty-seven years old—passed away in November. He had
married just two years earlier and had a baby daughter. The loss
devastated me again.
Four years have passed since then, and I won't pretend they've
been easy years. Earlier this year, our son Everett died as well.
Four of my nine children gone before me—it seems wrong, doesn't it?
Children should bury their parents, not the other way around. But
life doesn't always follow the order we expect.
Yet there have been joys too. I've watched my surviving children
build good lives. I've met my grandchildren—you wonderful children
who are reading these words. I've held great-grandchildren in my
arms. When I look at all of you, I see the future stretching forward,
and I know that Juliet and I created something lasting.
The World I've Seen Change
My dear grandchildren, I was born in 1848, just three years after
Queen Victoria ascended the British throne. I've lived through the
reign of four British monarchs—Victoria, Edward VII, George V, and
now we're in the midst of this terrible Great War. I've seen fifteen
American presidents, from Franklin Pierce to your current President
Wilson.
The changes I've witnessed are almost impossible to adequately
convey. When I was born, most people traveled by foot or horse. Now
we have railroads crisscrossing the continent, automobiles on the
streets, and I've even seen moving pictures at the cinema. When I was
young, news traveled slowly—it might take weeks to learn of events
in distant places. Now we have telegraph and telephone, and you can
speak to someone hundreds of miles away as if they were in the next
room.
I've seen the transformation of entire industries. The textile
mills where I spent my life went from water-powered buildings with a
few dozen employees to massive electric-powered factories with
hundreds of workers. I've watched farming become mechanized, cities
grow from towns to metropolises, and gaslight give way to electric
illumination.
I lived through the Civil War as a teenager, watching as this
nation nearly tore itself apart and then slowly stitched itself back
together. I've seen the West settled and wild territories become
states. And now, in my final months, I'm watching America enter this
Great War in Europe—a conflict on a scale that my childhood self
could never have imagined.
What I've Learned
After nearly seventy years on this earth, I've learned a few
things that I hope you'll take to heart:
First, hard work matters. I came to this country with nothing but
my parents' determination and my own willingness to work. I had no
formal education beyond basic literacy, no influential connections,
no inheritance. What I achieved, I achieved through steady effort and
a commitment to always doing my best work. Don't be afraid of hard
work—it's honest and honorable, and it builds character.
Second, family is everything. Your grandmother Juliet and I built
a life together based on love, mutual respect, and shared values. We
created a family that I hope will remain close for generations to
come. Take care of each other. Support each other through hard times.
Celebrate together in good times. The bonds of family are the
strongest ties we have in this world.
Third, faith provides an anchor when life becomes stormy. Your
grandmother and I found strength in our church community and in our
belief in something larger than ourselves. Whether you maintain that
same Episcopal tradition or find your own path, I encourage you to
cultivate a spiritual life. It will sustain you when nothing else
can.
Fourth, be kind. Your grandmother had the gentlest soul I've ever
known, and I've tried to emulate her kindness throughout my life.
Even in my role as overseer, when I had to be firm with workers, I
tried to treat everyone with dignity and respect. A kind word costs
nothing and can mean everything to someone struggling.
Finally, embrace change while honoring what came before. I've
watched the world transform in ways that would have been unimaginable
to my parents. Some changes have been for the better, others perhaps
not. But the future belongs to those who can adapt while holding onto
the core values that make us human—integrity, compassion, courage,
and love.
A Final Word
My dear grandchildren, I'm writing this in early 1917, and I know
my time is growing short. My health is failing—the doctors call it
pernicious anemia—and I find myself thinking often of your
grandmother and all those we've lost. I'm not afraid of death. I've
lived a full life, and I'm ready to rest.
But I wanted to leave you with these stories, so that you might
know where you came from. You are the descendants of English weavers
and American pioneers, of immigrant workers and native-born citizens,
of textile workers and musicians, of people who crossed oceans and
people who put down deep roots. You carry all of that history within
you.
When I think back on my life, I feel grateful. Grateful to my
parents for having the courage to leave everything familiar and seek
a better life for their children. Grateful for the opportunity
America gave me to rise through my own efforts. Grateful for
forty-five years of marriage to the finest woman I've ever known.
Grateful for my nine children and all of you grandchildren and
great-grandchildren. Grateful for work that allowed me to provide for
my family and contribute something of value to the world.
I hope that when you think of me, you'll remember that I was once
a small boy on a ship crossing the Atlantic, frightened and excited
about the future. That I became a man who worked hard, loved deeply,
and tried to live honorably. That I sang in church choirs and
directed hymns. That I understood the feel of wool fibers between my
fingers and could tell quality yarn just by touch. That I loved your
grandmother with all my heart for forty-five years and miss her every
day.
The thread of our family continues through each of you. You are my
legacy—far more valuable than any estate I could leave behind. Live
good lives. Work hard. Love generously. Take care of each other. And
perhaps, someday when you're old, you'll tell your own grandchildren
about your grandfather who came from England as a boy and helped
build the American textile industry.
That Wiltshire accent is long gone now, worn away by nearly
seventy years in New England. But sometimes, late at night when I'm
drifting off to sleep, I remember my mother's voice singing while she
worked at her loom, and I can hear again the sounds of that distant
English village where I began this long journey.
Your loving grandfather,
Thomas Richmond
Clinton, Massachusetts Early 1917
================================
3) The Infographic created by Google NotebookLM for Thomas Richmond's Life Memoir is below:
4) An Audio Overview (essentially a podcast) created by the Google NotebookLM AI tool) describing this memoir of Thomas Richmond in 1917 is here (click on "Audio Overview" and wait for it to load).
5) The Video Overview of Thomas Richmond'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.
Please comment on this post on the website by clicking the URL above and then the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post. Share it on Twitter, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below. Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com. Please note that all comments are moderated, and may not appear immediately.
Subscribe to receive a free daily email from Genea-Musings using www.Blogtrottr.com.
