Artificial Intelligence tools can provide historical fiction - even dialogue within a family given a family setting, a time frame and some information about the situation. Here is a conversation between my 5th great-grandparents at dinner time in 1780 residing in Westminster, Massachusetts, with some information about the key subjects.
(image created by Google Gemini 2.0 Flash)
1) My prompt for this fictional conversation was: You are an expert family historian. My 5th great-grandparents Norman and Sarah (Read) Seaver lived between 1735 and 1800, and had 13 children between 1755 and 1780. Norman served briefly in the Revolutionary War, and was a yeoman in Westminster, Mass. in 1780 with a house on 120 acres of land (hills, woods, fields, stream). The children helped their parents with chores, the older sons worked on the property, and the older girls minded the younger children. Please create a dialogue between Norman and Sarah about their day, and the news they heard in town while doing business, including some sentimental feelings toward each other and their hopes for the future.
2) AI Claude 3.7
Sonnet provided this discussion (after a second prompt for more detail in each paragraph):
An Evening Conversation: Norman and Sarah Seaver
Westminster, Massachusetts - Spring 1780
The day's work done, Norman Seaver enters the kitchen where
Sarah is preparing the evening meal. The warm, yeasty scent of baking
bread mingles with the savory aroma of rabbit stew. Several of their
younger children—six-year-old Leafe,
five-year-old Asahel, and three-year-old
Faitha—play with carved wooden animals on the
hearth rug, while nine-year-old Hannah rocks the cradle of baby
Lucinda. The older girls, Eunice and
Sally, move efficiently around the spacious kitchen,
finishing setting the long oak table that Norman had crafted from
trees felled on their own land. Through the open window, the rhythmic
sounds of chopping and the low murmurs of their older boys can be
heard as they complete the final chores before supper in the fading
golden light of early evening.
Norman: [removing his worn leather hat and
hanging it on the peg by the door, his face weathered from years of
working under the New England sun] Sarah, my dear, the north
field is finally plowed. That rocky soil fought us every step, but we
prevailed. Benjamin and Ethan were a great help today—took to the
oxen team like they were born to it. That boy Ethan has the strength
of a man now, though he's but fifteen. Has your father's build, he
does. The way he handles the plow reminds me so much of your brother.
Sarah: [wiping her hands on her homespun
apron, her once-auburn hair now streaked with silver but still thick
and pinned neatly under her cap] That's good to hear, Norman.
With the spring planting delayed by those late frosts, I've been
fretting about having enough time before the summer heat. Did you
manage to get to town as well? I've been needing more salt for
preserving, and thread for mending.
Norman: [dipping his calloused hands into a
basin of water that Ruth has brought him, splashing his face to wash
away the day's dust] Aye, I did. Took some of our maple sugar to
trade at Bigelow's store—nearly twenty pounds from this year's
tapping. The price was fair enough, though everything costs more
these days with the war still dragging on. Got your salt and thread,
and managed to acquire a bit of coffee too—a rare luxury these
days, but I thought you deserved something special. Mr. Bigelow says
the British blockade is making everything from abroad scarce as hen's
teeth.
Sarah: [stirring the hearty stew with a long
wooden spoon, adding a pinch of precious sage from her kitchen
garden] [glancing over at their youngest children] Hush
now about prices in front of the little ones. Last time you spoke of
such things, Asahel had nightmares about redcoats coming to take his
shoes. [lowering her voice] What news from town? Did you
hear anything of the fighting? Mrs. Holden's son was with the militia
near Boston, and we haven't heard whether he's returned yet.
Norman: [settling onto the bench by the fire,
his tall frame slightly stooped from years of farm labor, lowering
his voice] There was talk of General Washington's army at
Morristown having a hard winter. Food shortages and bitter cold, men
without proper boots walking on frozen ground. Makes me grateful for
our good fortune here, despite our own hardships. Young Holden is
reportedly well—saw his father at the meeting house, who had
received a letter just last week. The Adams fellow from Boston was
there too, passing through on his way to Philadelphia, speaking
passionately about independence to anyone who would listen.
Sarah: [her expression brightening with
relief at the news about their neighbor's son] Indeed. Did you
see the Reverend Rice while in town? I prepared a basket of early
herbs from the garden for his wife's rheumatism. That poor woman has
suffered so this past winter.
Norman: [reaching over to tickle little
Faitha as she toddles past with her wooden toy]
I did. Delivered your basket personally, and Mrs. Rice was most
grateful. She asked me to tell you that the chamomile you sent last
month worked wonders. The Reverend asked after you and the children.
Says he expects to see us all at Meeting on Sunday. [smiling, the
corners of his eyes crinkling with affection] I told him my
Sarah hasn't missed a Sabbath service in twenty-five years, war or no
war, not even when you were bringing Lucinda into the world—made it
to Meeting the very next day, stubborn as you are.
Sarah: [smiling back, a blush touching her
cheeks as she remembers her determination to give thanks after that
difficult birth] Well, the Lord has blessed us abundantly.
Thirteen children, and all but little Isaac and Joseph who we lost
still with us and healthy. It's only proper to give thanks. [pausing
to wipe a tear that forms at the memory of their fourth and
fifth children, taken by fever at ages
four and two] I light a candle for them every Sabbath
eve, you know.
Norman: [nodding solemnly, then looking
thoughtful as he gazes into the fire] I heard some news that
made me wonder about our Daniel's future. They say the Commonwealth
is offering land grants in the western territories—beyond the
Berkshires, even as far as the New York lands—for those who served
in the militia. My time was brief, but perhaps it would qualify.
Daniel has his mother's intellect and his grandfather's way with
numbers—he could make something of new land if given the chance.
Sarah: [pausing her work, a flicker of worry
crossing her face] The western lands? That's awfully far,
Norman. Indians still raid in those parts, from what I hear, and the
journey itself is perilous. Mother Seaver always said your
adventurous spirit would be the death of me. [her voice
softening] Though I suppose I wouldn't have this life if you
hadn't been brave enough to leave your father's farm in Sudbury.
Norman: [rising to take her hand, his thumb
gently caressing her worn wedding band] I wasn't thinking for
us, my love. Our roots are here now, deep as the old oak by the
stream. But for the boys when they're ready to establish their own
farms. Our acres here can't support all of them, and land prices in
Middlesex County grow dearer each year. A man should have his own
soil to till, his own trees to fell, just as my father taught me.
Just as I've taught our sons.
Sarah: [squeezing his hand, her work-worn
fingers strong despite their slenderness] You're always thinking
ahead for them, aren't you? Sometimes I forget how quickly they're
growing. Sally is already seventeen, and talks of nothing but Sam
Whitney’s boy lately. I catch her checking her reflection in the
water barrel when she thinks no one is looking. [with a soft
laugh] She reminds me so much of myself at that age, when a
certain tall young man from Sudbury came calling on my father.
Norman: [chuckling, his blue eyes twinkling
with mischief] I've noticed. Young Elisha Whitney has found many
reasons to visit our farm this spring. Borrowed our plow, helped with
the sugaring, brought a message from his father... yesterday he
claimed he needed advice on sheep shearing, though the Whitneys don't
keep sheep! [leaning closer] His father and I may have
already had words about a possible understanding between them. He's a
good lad, hard-working like his father, with a solid piece of land of
his own from his mother's family.
Sarah: [softly, looking around at the home
they've built together] Do you ever wonder, Norman, what will
become of them all? Our children's children, and theirs after them?
Will they remember us, do you think? Remember this place, and the
work of our hands?
Norman: [gazing out the window at the rolling
acres of their farm, the stone walls they've painstakingly built over
decades marking the boundaries of their fields, his expression
thoughtful] I do. I hope they'll live in a nation that's truly
free. That's why I answered the call at Lexington, brief though my
service was. I want them to work land that's truly their own, not
beholden to a king across the ocean. I may not live to see what this
country becomes, but I've faith it will be something remarkable. And
yes, I believe they'll remember—every time they use the tools I've
made, every time they pass down your mother's Bible with our family
names recorded inside, every time they tell the story of how their
grandfather once shook the hand of John Adams himself.
Sarah: [leaning against him briefly, drawing
comfort from his solid presence as she has for twenty-five years]
When I was preparing wool today with the girls, I found myself
thinking of when we first came to Shrewsbury. Just a small cabin
then, not this fine house with its glass windows and multiple
chambers. And only little Benjamin and Eunice to mind. Remember how
we slept with them between us that first winter, all huddled before
the fire? The wind howling through the chinks in the walls?
Norman: [smiling at the memory, his arm
encircling her waist] You were so brave, Sarah. Miles from your
parents' home in Sudbury, and yet you never complained, even that
first winter when the snow piled high as the door. I remember
watching you knead bread by candlelight, singing softly to baby Mary,
and thinking myself the most fortunate man in Massachusetts Bay
Colony. Your father thought me mad for bringing you to this
wilderness, but you bloomed here like one of your garden roses.
Sarah: [gesturing to the spacious kitchen
with its well-stocked shelves, the carved furniture, the spinning
wheel in the corner, and through the doorway to the comfortable
chambers beyond] We've built something good here, haven't we,
Norman? Something that will last beyond our years.
Norman: [putting an arm around her waist, his
voice thick with emotion] The best thing I could have hoped for,
my dear. Better than my father's prosperous farm, better than all the
comforts of Sudbury. And God willing, we'll see many more years on
this land. Perhaps even see the day when we're a proper independent
nation, with no king but the Almighty above.
Sarah: [nodding toward the children as the
older boys begin to file in from outside, their faces ruddy from
exertion] Sally, please call your brothers in for supper—tell
them to wash at the pump before entering. Eunice, mind the cornbread
doesn't burn. Leafe, help little Lucinda into her chair. [turning
back to Norman, speaking quietly as their brood assembles] And
perhaps a grandchild or two before long. I've seen how Elisha Whitney
looks at our Sally—like you used to look at me at Sudbury Meeting,
when you thought my father wasn't watching.
Norman: [grinning broadly, his weathered face
alight with pleasure at the thought] Now that would be a
blessing indeed. A new generation of Seavers to work this land, to
continue what we've begun. Though I'm not sure I'm old enough to be
called Grandfather just yet! My father was over fifty when Eunice
made him a grandfather.
Sarah: [laughing softly, tucking a stray
strand of silver-streaked hair back under her cap] At
five-and-forty? You most certainly are, though you work those fields
like a man of thirty. Time doesn't stand still, my love, however much
we might wish it. The seasons turn, children grow, and God willing,
new ones come to take their place.
Norman: [his expression growing tender as he
watches their family gather] Only because I have you to come
home to, Sarah Read Seaver. These five-and-twenty years have gone by
in the blink of an eye. When I think of that slender girl I courted
in Sudbury, with her quick wit and quicker smile... [touching her
cheek gently] I see her still, you know. Behind those wise eyes
that have seen the birth of thirteen children and the passing of one
dear angel.
Sarah: [smiling as the children begin to
gather around the table, her heart full] And may we be blessed
with many more years together, my love. Now come—let us give thanks
for this bounty, for this roof over our heads, for the work of our
hands, and for the gift of each other.
[The Seaver family—all eleven children still at home, from
twenty-five year-old Eunice down
to baby Lucinda—file in for the evening meal,
filling the farmhouse kitchen with noise and life. Norman takes his
place at the head of the table, with Sarah at the foot, as the spring
day comes to an end in Westminster. Through the windows, the last
golden light touches the rolling acres of their farm—the visible
manifestation of twenty-five years of shared labor, love, and hope
for the future.]
3) My first impression was WOW!!! What has this AI tool been trained on? It captured everything I asked for in a pretty general prompt without the names of the children. I have feelings about this!Claude invented the names and ages of most of the 11 living children (and other persons), and I changed them to fit the actual names of the children of Sarah and Norman Seaver. For reference purposes, my genealogical sketch of Norman Seaver is in 52 Ancestors - Week 105: #128 Norman Seaver (1734-1787).
In real life, daughter Sally did marry Elisha Whitney, and my 4th great-grandfather Benjamin married Martha Whitney; both were children of Samuel and Abigail (Fletcher) Whitney who lived close by.
Notice that Claude wove some historical events of the times into the dialogue, and also mentioned common experiences working on the farm, in the house, and visiting in the town.
4) It is a challenge to write a prompt that captures setting, family facts, historic times, etc. But it can be done. I'm gradually thinking of family stories for each of my ancestral couples that might capture what they might have said in a contemporary setting and situation. It's fun to do this and can be enlightening and endearing to family members who want to know more about their ancestors but did not experience them.
5) Unfortunately, Claude does not create photorealistic images yet, so I asked ChatGPT4 and Gemini and Grok to do the task. My prompt was: Please create a photorealistic image of Norman and Sarah Seaver and 11 children (ranging from 1 to 25 years old) around their dinner table in their home in the hills of Westminster, Mass. in 1780 with the sun setting outside their window and food on the table and a fireplace hearth in the background.
Apparently, ChatGPT4 was too busy or confused by the request. Grok's image had 25 persons in the image (I asked for 13). Gemini's image had only 8 persons, but did include the fireplace, so I used that for the image above. I will try ChatGPT4 again when it's not too busy.
6) This is historical fiction - real people, real setting, imaginary dialogue. I know a lot about them at moments in time. But they lived day-by-day. There was work to be done to build and keep their home, provide food for their family, serve their community and country, and maintain relations with their extended family. Life was not easy in 1780.
I'm not sure the terminology and life situation are consistent with 1780, and the voices would have an English accent. I'm not sure if Norman and Sarah Seaver were the hard-working, loving couple portrayed in the dialogue, but I really want to think they were. 13 children over 25 years is amazing. The house is still standing on Overlook Road in Westminster, built in 1773 according to a house history.
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