Genealogical Sketch of the Peter Victorse Putman (1760-1835) and Sarah Kinnan (1761-1841) Family of New Jersey and New York

This is a genealogical sketch of the lives of the Peter Victorse Putman (1760-1835) and Sarah Kinnan (1761- 1841) family of New Jersey and New York. They are my fifth great-grandparents. 

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Peter Victorse Putman’s Early Life

Peter Victorse Putman was born during the French and Indian War, probably about 1760 in Sussex County, New Jersey Colony, the third son and sixth child (of seven) of Victor Davidse Putman (1721-1765) and Margaret Weis (1726-1765)[1], who married in about 1745 in New Jersey Colony. The children of Victor and Margaret (Wies) Putman were:

• Maria Putman was born before 8 October 1749 in Smithfield, Monroe, Pennsylvania Colony.
• Elisabetha Putman was born before 28 April 1751 in Smithfield, Monroe, Pennsylvania Colony.
• Saertje Putman was born before 12 August 1753 in Smithfield, Monroe, Pennsylvania Colony.
• David Putman was born about 1755 in probably Sussex, New Jersey Colony.
• Johannes Victorse Putman, born about 1757, Probably Wantage, Sussex, New Jersey Colony; married Sina --?--; died before 14 December 1798, Newton, Sussex, New Jersey.
• Peter Victorse Putman, born about 1760, Wantage, Sussex, New Jersey Colony; married Sarah Kinnan, 20 March 1780, Wantage, Sussex, New Jersey; died 3 October 1835, Barrington, Yates, New York.

Peter Putman served in the Revolutionary War as a private in Captain Holmes Company in the 3rd Regiment in the New Jersey Continental Line. Enlisting on 5 March 1778, he fought in the Battle of Monmouth New Jersey on 28 June 1778, which was a turning point in the War. Peter Putman later was at the smaller Battle of Pompton Plains, New Jersey. He was probably at Valley Forge during the spring encampment and he also served in Captain Harker's Company in the 2nd Regiment of the Sussex County Militia serving six weeks in 1780. Peter was discharged from the military at the hospital in Princeton, New Jersey 1 October 1780. He attained the rank of Captain following the Revolution in the Sussex County (NJ) State Militia[1,2].

Sarah Kinnan Early Life

Sarah Kinnan (or Canaan) was born in June 1761 in Wantage, Sussex County, New Jersey Colony. She was the first daughter and second child (of four) of John Kinnan (1732-1784) and Martha Morrison (1735-after 1785) of Wantage township, who married in about 1754 in New Jersey Colony. The children of John and Martha (Morrison) Kinnan were:

• John Kinnan, born 1756, Sussex, New Jersey Colony; married Deborah Dennis, 4 December 1780, Monmouth, New Jersey Colony; died 12 June 1809, Sandyston, Sussex, New Jersey.
• Sarah Kinnan, born June 1761, Wantage, Sussex, New Jersey Colony; married Peter Victorse Putman, 20 March 1780, Wantage, Sussex, New Jersey; died 22 November 1841, Springwater, Livingston, New York.
• Eleanor Kinnan, born about 1765, Sussex, New Jersey Colony; married John Chamberlain, about 1782, Sussex, New Jersey.
• Martha Kinnan, born about 1772, Sussex, New Jersey Colony; married Eleazer Atherton; died 1859, Clarks Green, Lackawanna, Pennsylvania, United States.

Peter and Sarah (Kinnan) Putman Married Life

Peter Putman married Sarah Kinnan (or Canaan) on 20 March 1780 in Wantage township, Sussex County, New Jersey, according to his pension record[2]. Peter and Sarah resided in Wantage after their marriage, and then they lived in Sandyston township, Sussex County after the war ended, where they owned land on the Delaware River[1].

Peter Victorse Putman and Sarah Kinnan had the following children:

• Victor Putman, born 26 October 1782, Wantage, Sussex, New Jersey; married Elizabeth Kleyn, before 1809, Probably Sussex, New Jersey, no children; died 21 May 1845, Canadice, Ontario, New York.

• John Pieterse Putman, born 27 September 1785, Walpack, Sussex, New Jersey; married Sarah Martin, about 1810, probably Seneca, New York, eight children; died 10 May 1863, Delhi, Norfolk, Canada West.

• Peter Putman, born 1788, Probably Sussex, New Jersey; married Margaret Saunders, about 1812, New York, thirteen children; died 24 September 1855, Springwater, Livingston, New York.

• David Putman was born about 1790, probably Sussex, New Jersey; died before 1855.

• Isaac Kinnan Putman, born 22 December 1796, probably Sussex, New Jersey; married Charlotte Spillman, 11 January 1819, Clark, Ohio, five children; died 18 September 1875, Miami, Logan, Ohio.

A land deed between Henry Cuyler (perhaps Collier), of Greenbush, Rensselaer County, New York, and Peter Putman dated May 19, 1800, indicates that Henry Cuyler had purchased 1,500 acres of land along the Delaware River in Sandyston, New Jersey (from James Parker of Perth Amboy), and on this date conveyed 152 acres to Peter Putman. Witnesses to the transaction were Even Bevens, Mathias Clark, and Thomas Anderson the later an officer of the High Court of Chancery. Consideration was 152 Pounds, or 1 Pound per acre[1].

The 1793 Military Census of New Jersey shows the Peter Putman homestead located in the Beven's Post Office area north of Peter's Valley. 

In a June 20, 1808, deed, Peter and Sarah Putman of Sandyston, New Jersey, conveyed 141 perches of land in Sandyston to James Van Auken of the Township of Montague. The consideration was $1,500. Witnesses were Jacob Hornbeck and Isaac Van Auken. The land sold butted the southeast corner of 52 acres Peter Putman had previously sold to Andrew Dingman and he to Jacob Smith[1].

Following the paths of other Revolutionary War veterans of Sussex County, by 1810 Peter Putman may have removed to Seneca County, New York, where a Peter Putman was listed in that year's census near Joseph Cannan and Ephraim Rolfe in the Town of Ulysses. Ulysses became a part of Tompkins County[1].

In the 1810 US Census for Ulysses, Seneca County, New York, the Peter Putman family had[3]:

• one male under age 10
• one male aged 10 to 16 (perhaps son Isaac)
• one male aged 16-25 (perhaps son David, Peter or John)
• one male aged 25 to 45 (perhaps son Victor)
• one male over age 45 (certainly Peter)
• one female aged 10 to 16
• one female aged 16 to 25 (perhaps a wife of a son)
• one female over age 45 (likely Sarah)

During, or shortly after, the War of 1812, the family moved to Wayne township, Steuben County, New York, as did many Revolutionary War veterans. Peter's sons may have worked in the lumbering industry, which was the second most common occupation following agriculture in Steuben County[1].

According to the History of Yates County, New York, Joseph Kinnan, and his wife, and Peter Putnam, and his wife, helped in the founding of the Methodist Church of Barrington in 1810.

In the 1820 United States Census, Peter Putman was listed in the Town of Wayne, Steuben County, New York next to Victor Putman[4]. The household included:

• one male aged over 45 (certainly Peter)
• one female aged over 45 (likely Sarah)

Peter Putman and his sons probably worked in the lumber woods during the winter months and farmed during the summer. Lumbering was a common occupation of Steuben County. Loggers constructed rafts of lumber on Mud Lake just south of Barrington and floated them down the Susquehanna River to Pennsylvania and Maryland[1].

In the 1830 United States Census, Peter Putman was listed in the Town of Barrington, Yates County, New York next to Victor Putman[5]. The household included:

• one male aged 30 and 40 (perhaps son Isaac)
• one male aged 70 and 80 (certainly Peter)
• one female aged 60 and 70 (likely Sarah)

Later Years

Peter Victorse Putman died on October 3, 1835, at age 75 in Yates County, New York, and was probably buried there[2]. No death, cemetery or probate records have been found for Peter Putman in Yates County, New York records.

The Revolutionary War Pension File for Peter Putman included the following affidavit and inventory[2]:

"State of New York County of Steuben: On this second day of February 1825 personally appeared in open Court being a court of record for said County Peter Putman aged sixty five years resident in the town of Barrington in the said County who being first duly sworn according to law doth on his oath made the following declaration in order to obtain the provision made by the acts of Congress of the 18th March 1818 and then 1st May 1820. That he the said Peter Putman enlisted for the term of two years during the revolutionary war on or about the 5th day of March 1778 in the State of New Jersey in the company commanded by Captain Holmes in the 2d Regiment commanded by Colonel Dayton in the line of the State of New Jersey on the continental establishment: that he continued to serve in the said corps until about the 1st October 1780 when he was discharged from the said service at Princeton in the State of New Jersey from the hospital that he was in the battle of Monmouth and also in another battle which was fought in the State of New Jersey, which battle used to go by the name of the Pompton battle: that he received a written discharge from said service signed as the declarant believes by the said Colonel Dayton and which discharge was delivered to him by the Surgeon and which discharge he has long since lost and cannot now produce: that he has no other evidence now in his power of his said services except the affidavits of Moor Wilson & John Jolly, that the said Moor Wilson is very old and infirm and is now confined to his bed in consequence of a fall; and that the said John Jolly now resides fifty four miles from Bath in the said County of Steuben, is old and very weak and infirm and cannot as this declarant believes endure so long a journey - That the family of this declarant consists of himself and his wife Sarah aged 64 years, neither of whom are able to work much being afflicted with rheumatism. That he made a declaration in writing of his said services before Thomas McBurney Esq. first Judge of the County of Steuben on the 3d February 1820: that he hereby relinquishes every claim whatsoever to a pension except the present: that his name is not on the roll of any State except that of New York, and that the following are the reasons for not making earlier application for a pension: that he did not wish to be dependent on his country while he was able to maintain himself and wife: that owing to sickness and misfortunes he has become unable to work and is quite reduced in his circumstances - and in pursuance of the act of 1st May 1820 I do solemnly swear that I was a resident citizen of the United States on the eighteenth day of March 1818 and that I have not since that time by gift sale or in any manner disposed of my property or any part thereof with intent thereby so to diminish it as to bring myself within the provisions of an act of Congress entitled "An act to provide for certain persons engaged in the land and naval service of the United States in the revolutionary war" passed on the 18th day of March 1818 and that I have not nor had any other person in trust for me any property or securities contracts or debts due to me nor have I any income other than what is contained in the schedule hereto annexed and by me subscribed. That I am a farmer by occupation but owing to my advanced age and rheumatic complaints I am not able to do much labor.

                                                                 Peter Putman

"Sworn to and declared on the 2d day of February 1825 before me: John Metcalfe, Clerk of Steuben County."

"Property in former Schedule
Real estate I have none
Personal estate
one cow which will be 8 years old next spring $10
two calves which will be one year old next spring $8
four sheep common blood $4
Ten pigs four or five months old very small $2
One old feather bed - been in use thirty years small Slight $4
Two old and worn blankets & one coverlet also old & worn $1.50
Two old linen sheets $0.50
An old indifferent ash bedstead $0.35
An old 3 pail kettle & one other old small kettle both cracked & hooped $1.50
An old table broken & split cost one dollar when purchased $0.25
An old chest been in wear thirty years $0.25
An old small trunk been in use as long $0.13
Three pewter plates $0.38
4 small earthen plates $0.12
2 old knives & 3 forks $0.12
6 old iron spoons $0.18
3 old earthen tea cups &saucers $0.06
One old axe & one old hoe $0.75
One old worn out mowing scythe $0.25"

"Schedule of property
Real estate I have none
One two year old steer $8
One yearling heifer $6
Three shotes $3
One chest $1
One small trunk $1
One dinner kettle $1
One tea kettle $1
One pan $0.75
Six earthen plates $0.37
Three chairs $1
One table $1
Three tea cups & saucers $0.12
One large wheel $1
Two earthen crocks $0.25
One bucket $0.25
One churn $0.50
Two Barrels $1
Several knives & forks say 5 $0.25
Two basons $0.50
Two bowls $0.12
One old waggon $15
[Total owned] $43.62"

"And that since the exhibition of the former schedule the following changes have taken place in my property -
The Cow mentioned therein died last spring
The two calves have been killed for provisions for my family
The four sheep have been sold for grain for the use of my family
The four pigs have been killed for provisions for the use of my family" 

"That I am indebted to Abraham P. Vosburgh Esq. of Penn Yan for a plough which I have since parted with to pay Doctors bill $14
To Daniel Shannon for carding & fulling $12.80
To William Babcock for pork for provisions for my family $10
To. Mrs. Ellsworth for do for do $5
[Total owed] $41.80"

After Peter Putman's death, his widow, Sarah, continued receiving his pension. She wrote an affidavit, which is included in the Revolutionary War Pension File (W 7,501) about her qualifications for the pension on 3 August 1836[2]:

"State of New York
County of Yates.

"Then this 3d day of August personally appeared before Court of Common Pleas of the county of Yates Sarah Putman, a resident of the town of Barrington in the county of Yates and State of New York, aged seventy six years and two months, who being first duly sworn according to Law, doth on her oath make the following declaration in order to obtain the benefit of the provision made by the Act of Congress passed July 4th 1836. That she is the widow of Peter Putman, who was draughted out of Hankinson Regiment about the year 1780 under Captain Joseph Horker and served in the New Jersey Militia for about six weeks. She further declared that she was married to the said Peter Putman on the 20th day of March in 1780 that her husband the aforesaid Peter Putman died on the 3 day of October in the year 1835 and that she has remained a widow ever since that period as will more fully appear by reference to the proof hereto annexed.

"Sworn to and subscribed on                                         her
the day and year above written                            Sarah X Putman
before me                                                                        mark
A.W. Woodworth Co. Ck."

This affidavit by Peter Putman's widow provides more biographical information, including the approximate month and year of her birth and the marriage date of Peter and Sarah (Kinnan) Putman. She recounts additional service by her husband in 1780 for some reason (perhaps related to the Act of Congress on 4 July 1836).

On August 30, 1838, Sarah at 76 years 2 months was living with her son David Putman in Barrington, New York. She afterward lived with her son, Peter, Jr., and died at his home in Springwater, New York, November 22, 1841, at 80 years old[1].

NOTE:  Much of the data presented on the Putman family was obtained from Mark Putman, who published the Putman Family Bulletin for several years. One of his publications, "David Janse Putman," covers the present ancestral line. Additional information about this family is on Mark Putnam's web page at http://www.putmanfamily.org/Family/David%20Janse%20Pottman.pdf (as of April 2017)[1].

Sources

1. Mark R. Putman, The Putman Family Bulletin, website (https://www.putmanfamily.org/), "David Janse Putman," Peter Putman sketch, pages 32 to 43 (accessed 27 April 2017, no longer available).

2. "Revolutionary War Pension and Bounty-Land Warrant Application Files," images; Fold3.com (https://www.Fold3.com): accessed 12 December 2007), Pension application W 17501, New Jersey, Peter Putman of Steuben County, New York.

3. 1810 United States Federal Census, Seneca County, New York, population schedule, Ulysses town, page 297, Peter Putman household; imaged, Ancestry.com (https://www.ancestry.com); citing National Archives Microfilm Publication M292, Roll 36.

4. 1820 United States Federal Census, Population Schedule, Steuben County, New York, population schedule, Wayne town, page 249, Peter Putman household; imaged, Ancestry.com (https://www.ancestry.com), citing National Archives Microfilm Publication M33, Roll 74.

5. 1830 United States Federal Census, Population Schedule, Yates County, New York, population schedule, Barrington town; Page 244, Peter Putman household; imaged, Ancestry.com (https://www.ancestry.com), citing National Archives Microfilm Publication M19, Roll 117.

Relationship

Peter Victorse Putman and Sarah Kinnan are my 5th great-grandparents, through their son John Piterse Putman (1785-1863) who married Sarah Martin (1792-1860) in about 1810.

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Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver

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Ask AI: Tell Me Tales From Kemp's Hotel In Ontario In the Early 1870s

 I wondered if the FREE AI tools could provide me with a story about my 2nd great-grandfather James Abraham Kemp when he was an Innkeeper of Kemp's Hotel in Fredericksburg, Norfolk County, Ontario in the early 1870s.  

 My genealogical sketch for James Abraham Kemp is 52 Ancestors - Week 23: #30, James Abraham Kemp (1831-1902) based on my genealogical research.

(AI NotebookLM Infographic of the tales of the Krmp Hotel in the 1870s)

1)  My Prompt to free Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 was:  "Please write a story about James Abraham Kemp innkeeping experiences set in 1873."

2)  The AI tool responded with this story (yes, it is historical fiction, but the way it might have been): 

Tales from Kemp's Hotel

A Publican's Journal from Fredericksburg

By James Abraham Kemp, 1873

Spring, 1873

Three years now I've been running this establishment in Fredericksburg, and Mary Jane says I should keep a record of the more memorable occurrences for our children to read someday. "You're not just a carpenter and innkeeper," she tells me, "you're watching the world pass through our front door." She's right, as she usually is. So I'll set down here some tales from Kemp's Hotel that deserve remembering.

The Storm That Brought the Johnsons

February of '72 brought one of the worst snowstorms I can remember. The wind howled like a pack of wolves, and snow came down so thick you couldn't see the barn from the back door. About eight o'clock that evening, just as I was preparing to close up the public room, there came a desperate pounding on the front door.

I opened it to find a young couple half-frozen, the man supporting his wife who was clearly with child and in considerable distress. Behind them, barely visible through the snow, was their poor horse, head down against the wind, steam rising from its flanks.

"Please, sir," the man gasped, "my wife—the baby's coming early. We were trying to reach her mother's farm in Windham, but we can't go on in this."

Mary Jane appeared at my shoulder, took one look at the woman, and immediately shifted into that capable mode she has. "Bring her to the best room upstairs," she commanded. "James, get the horse into the barn and then fetch Dr. Woodhouse, storm or no storm." To the young man: "What's your name, son?"

"Thomas Johnson, ma'am. This is my wife, Ellen. We're from Port Dover."

I got the horse settled—poor beast was near done in—and set out through the storm for the doctor's house. It took me near an hour to struggle through drifts that came up to my chest in places, but Dr. Woodhouse is a good man and didn't hesitate. We made it back to find Mary Jane had Ellen comfortable in our second-best bedroom, with every lamp lit and water heating on the stove.

That baby was born at three o'clock in the morning, a healthy boy despite coming early. Ellen Johnson held him close and wept with relief while young Thomas paced the hallway, finally allowed in to meet his son. The storm raged for two more days, keeping the Johnsons snowed in with us. By the time the roads cleared, little William Johnson had become something of a mascot around the hotel, with Mary Jane fussing over him and even our own Seymour, just eight years old, wanting to help care for the baby.

Thomas Johnson tried to pay us extra for Mary Jane's nursing care, but she wouldn't hear of it. "You pay for your room and meals like any guest," she said firmly, "but bringing a child into the world safely is just what decent people do for each other."

They send us a Christmas card last year, with a photograph of young William growing bigger each time. Mary Jane keeps them all in her Bible.

The Timber Baron Who Wasn't

In the summer of '71, a well-dressed gentleman arrived by coach from Port Dover, carrying an expensive leather valise and wearing a gold watch chain that could have fed a family for a month. He registered as "Mr. Jonathan Aldrich, Philadelphia" and requested our finest accommodations for a week.

"I'm here on business," he explained smoothly. "Timber speculation. I represent interests looking to invest in Norfolk County's lumber industry."

Mr. Aldrich cut quite a figure around Fredericksburg that week. He bought drinks for locals in our public room, asking questions about timber stands and lumber operations. He attended Sunday services at the Baptist church and was introduced to prominent citizens. He hinted at vast sums available for investment in the right opportunities.

By the fourth day, several local men had approached me asking about Mr. Aldrich's legitimacy. "He wants to discuss a business proposition," said William Henderson, who owned a small sawmill. "Says he can arrange financing from Philadelphia banks. What do you think, James?"

Something about the man didn't sit right with me, though I couldn't put my finger on it exactly. His clothes were fine, but his hands were too soft—no calluses, no scars from manual labor. His knowledge of timber seemed superficial, learned from books rather than experience. And he asked too many questions about who had money in the area.

I told Henderson to be cautious, to get everything in writing, to verify credentials before signing anything. Henderson thanked me but seemed disappointed at my skepticism.

On the sixth day, Mr. Aldrich left abruptly, claiming urgent business in Toronto. He paid his bill in cash—always cash, I noticed, never bank drafts—and departed on the morning coach.

Two weeks later, we learned that a man matching Aldrich's description had been arrested in Hamilton for confidence schemes. He'd been working his way through small Ontario towns, identifying men with capital, gaining their trust, and then convincing them to invest in fraudulent enterprises. By the time victims realized they'd been duped, he'd moved on to the next town.

Henderson came to thank me for my caution—he'd been on the verge of investing his entire savings in one of Aldrich's "guaranteed opportunities." After that, my reputation for reading people grew considerably, though in truth I'd just trusted my carpenter's instinct that something didn't fit square.

The Runaway Bride

Last October brought us one of the most dramatic episodes in the hotel's history. A young woman arrived alone by coach, clearly agitated, and asked for a room. She couldn't have been more than nineteen, well-dressed but with her hair disheveled and her eyes red from crying.

"I need a room just for tonight," she said, her voice trembling. "I have money. I just need somewhere safe to stay."

Mary Jane took one look at her and said, "Come with me, dear. Let's get you settled upstairs, and then perhaps some tea?"

The girl—she said her name was Catherine—took the room but seemed terrified, jumping at every sound from the street. Mary Jane sat with her for an hour, and eventually the story came out.

Catherine had been engaged to marry a man twice her age, a wealthy merchant from Simcoe whom her father had chosen for her. The wedding was to be that very day. That morning, dressed in her wedding gown, she'd looked at her future husband and couldn't go through with it. She'd climbed out a window, changed into traveling clothes she'd hidden, and taken the morning coach to Fredericksburg to escape.

"My father will come looking for me," she wept. "He'll drag me back and force me to marry Mr. Patterson. I'd rather die than spend my life with that cold, cruel man."

Sure enough, around suppertime, an angry gentleman and the local constable from Simcoe arrived, demanding to know if we'd seen a runaway girl. I invited them into the public room for a drink while Mary Jane went upstairs to speak with Catherine.

"She's my daughter," the father fumed, "and she'll honor her commitments! Patterson has paid a considerable bride price, and the wedding will proceed!"

I'd never heard a Canadian speak of "bride price" like that—as if his daughter were livestock at market. It turned my stomach.

Mary Jane came downstairs and spoke quietly in my ear: "Catherine says she'll throw herself in the creek rather than marry against her will. And James, I believe her. She's desperate."

I thought of our own Sarah Elizabeth, just ten years old upstairs with her siblings, and wondered what kind of man I'd be if I let this girl be dragged away to a loveless marriage.

"Constable," I said carefully, "is Miss Catherine accused of any crime?"

"Well, no," he admitted. "It's a family matter."

"And is she of legal age?"

"She's nineteen," the father said impatiently. "What difference does that make?"

"All the difference in the world, sir. If she's of age and has committed no crime, then by what authority do you propose to force her to leave this establishment? This is a respectable hotel, and she's a paying guest under my protection."

The father turned purple with rage. "You dare interfere in family business? I'll sue you for everything you have! I'll—"

"You'll do what's legal and proper," I interrupted, keeping my voice calm. "Your daughter is an adult woman. If she chooses to stay here, that's her right under British law. If you wish to speak with her, you may ask politely, and she may choose to receive you or not. But you'll not remove anyone from my establishment by force."

The standoff lasted another tense hour, with the father threatening legal action and me standing firm. Finally, Mary Jane brought Catherine downstairs. The girl's hands shook, but she stood straight and addressed her father directly.

"Papa, I cannot marry Mr. Patterson. I've tried to explain, but you won't listen. He frightens me, and I don't love him. I'll not be sold like property, no matter how much he's paid you."

The father tried bluster, then pleading, then threats. But Catherine held firm, and eventually the two men left, the father vowing this wasn't finished.

Catherine stayed with us for three more days while Mary Jane helped her contact an aunt in Port Rowan who agreed to take her in. The aunt arrived, assessed the situation, and had some choice words for Catherine's father about treating daughters like commodities.

We never learned how the story fully resolved, but Catherine wrote us one letter from Port Rowan, saying she'd found work as a schoolteacher and thanking us for our courage. Mary Jane keeps that letter in her Bible too, next to the card from the Johnson family.

The Temperance Ladies

Running a hotel with a public room means serving alcohol, and that's brought me into conflict with the temperance movement that's grown strong in these parts. I'm not opposed to temperance in principle—I've seen drink destroy good men—but some of the zealots take it too far.

Last summer, a delegation of temperance ladies descended on Kemp's Hotel like an avenging army. Mrs. Hutchinson, who leads the local Women's Christian Temperance Union, marched through my front door with six other ladies, all wearing their white ribbons and carrying pamphlets.

"Mr. Kemp," she announced in a voice that could cut glass, "we've come to discuss your establishment's role in promoting the demon rum and destroying the moral fabric of our community."

I invited them to sit in the dining room—away from the public room where several farmers were enjoying their afternoon pints—and asked Mary Jane to bring tea. The ladies proceeded to lecture me on the evils of alcohol for a solid half-hour.

I let them finish, then spoke my piece. "Ladies, I respect your views on temperance. Truly, I do. But this is a licensed establishment operating within the law. I serve meals and provide lodging, and yes, I serve alcohol to those who wish it. But I run a respectable house. I don't serve men who are already drunk. I don't allow fighting or lewd behavior. I close at decent hours. And I don't serve boys or young men without their fathers' permission."

Mrs. Hutchinson wasn't satisfied. "Any serving of alcohol contributes to moral decay! How many wives go hungry because their husbands spend their wages here?"

"I can't answer for every man's choices," I said. "But I can tell you that if a man's wife comes to me saying her husband is drinking their food money, I cut him off. It's happened three times since I've run this place, and each time I've refused to serve the man until he's settled accounts at home."

That surprised them, I could tell. The conversation shifted, became less confrontational. By the time they left, we hadn't agreed on everything, but there was mutual respect. Mrs. Hutchinson even thanked me for running "as decent an establishment as can be expected given the nature of the business."

Mary Jane laughed after they left. "You charmed them, James Kemp. Who knew temperance ladies could be charmed?"

The Traveling Salesman's Tale

Commercial travelers pass through regularly—men with sample cases selling everything from patent medicines to farm equipment. Most are pleasant enough, though some try to talk your ear off. But one stands out in my memory.

Mr. Silas Porter sold books—Bibles, agricultural manuals, novels, encyclopedias. He came through every few months, staying two or three nights while he called on customers in the area. Unlike most salesmen, Porter was quiet, almost melancholy, and spent his evenings in his room reading rather than socializing in the public room.

One slow evening in March, I found him sitting alone in the dining room, staring at a small daguerreotype. He looked so sorrowful that I asked if he was all right.

"Forgive me, Mr. Kemp," he said. "It's just the anniversary of a sad occasion." He showed me the daguerreotype—a beautiful young woman holding a baby.

"My wife and daughter," he explained. "Lost to cholera in '66, during the outbreak in Toronto. I was traveling, selling books in the Ottawa Valley, when it happened. By the time I got the telegram and returned home, they were already buried."

I sat down across from him, having no words adequate for such loss. He continued, seeming to need to talk.

"I couldn't stay in Toronto after that. Every street corner reminded me of Elizabeth, every child I saw made me think of little Margaret. So I became a traveling salesman—always moving, never staying anywhere long enough to feel what I'd lost. It's been seven years now, and I still carry their picture, still mark this day."

We sat in silence for a while, and then I told him about losing my mother when I was young, about how grief changes but never entirely leaves you. We talked until late that night, two men who'd known loss, finding some small comfort in shared understanding.

Porter still comes through Fredericksburg on his routes, and he always stays at Kemp's Hotel. He's warmer now, will join conversations in the public room, even smiles occasionally. Mary Jane says we helped him heal a little, just by listening and treating him like a person rather than just a customer.

The Mirror Behind the Bar

The public room has a large mirror behind the bar—I installed it last year because it makes the room look bigger and helps me keep an eye on things while I'm serving. But that mirror has shown me more than just reflections.

I've seen farmers celebrating good harvests, toasting each other with genuine joy. I've seen men drowning sorrows after bad crops or family tragedies, and I've quietly suggested they'd had enough and should head home. I've seen young men puffing themselves up to impress girls, and old men reminiscing about their youth.

I've watched marriages proposed in that mirror's reflection—nervous young men getting courage from their friends before approaching their sweethearts. I've seen business deals made and broken, arguments started and settled, friendships forged and tested.

But mostly what I see in that mirror is human nature—people seeking connection, comfort, celebration, or just a brief escape from their daily troubles. Some of the temperance ladies think I'm in the business of selling damnation, but I see it differently. I'm providing a gathering place, a neutral ground where the community can come together.

Not that it's always easy. I've had to throw out men who got too rowdy. I've settled disputes before they turned into fights. I've listened to more complaints, confessions, and hard-luck stories than any Methodist minister. And yes, I've occasionally had to deal with guests who tried to skip out on their bills or cause trouble.

The Legal Troubles

I'd be dishonest if I didn't mention the difficulties of last year. That business with Thomas Haley over the property rights to the hotel nearly ruined me. Legal papers, court appearances, sleepless nights worrying we'd lose everything—it was a nightmare that lasted months.

The details are complicated and not worth repeating here, but it came down to disputed property titles and a man who thought he could bully me out of what I'd legally purchased. The Writ of Ejectment that summer of '71 was terrifying—imagine being told you might be thrown out of the business you'd built, the home where your children sleep.

Mary Jane was my rock through those months. While I was consumed with legal worries, she kept the hotel running smoothly, kept the children calm, and repeatedly reminded me that we'd survive whatever came. "We managed before we had this hotel, James," she'd say, "and we'll manage if we lose it. We have each other and the children, and that's what matters."

In the end, we prevailed in court, but it cost us dearly in legal fees and lost business during the uncertainty. The experience taught me to be more careful about property transactions and to get everything in writing, reviewed by a proper solicitor. It also taught me that a good wife is worth more than any business success.

The Children Growing

The best part of running a hotel in the same building where we live is that my children are never far away. Sarah Elizabeth, now eleven, helps her mother with serving meals and tidying rooms. She's becoming quite the young lady, and guests often compliment her manners. Seymour, nine years old, thinks he's my assistant and follows me around when he should be at his lessons. The little girls—Minnie, Georgianna, and even baby James Alexander—add life and laughter to the establishment.

Some hotel owners wouldn't want children underfoot, but Mary Jane and I believe it's good for them to see honest work and to learn how to treat all kinds of people with respect. They've met farmers and merchants, lawyers and laborers, families traveling to new homes and wanderers with no home at all.

Sarah Elizabeth told me last week that she wants to run a hotel when she grows up, "just like Papa." Seymour declares he'll be a carpenter and build hotels. The little ones are still deciding. Whatever they become, I hope they remember these years and the lessons available in watching humanity pass through our doors.

Reflections

It's late now, past midnight, and the hotel is finally quiet. The last guest has retired, the public room is cleaned and closed, and Mary Jane is already asleep upstairs. I'm sitting here in the dim lamplight, recording these memories, and thinking about what this business has taught me.

I learned carpentry from skilled craftsmen—how to cut a board straight, join corners square, build something that will stand for generations. But running Kemp's Hotel has taught me different skills: how to read people quickly, how to defuse tension, how to show hospitality even when exhausted, how to balance business needs with human kindness.

Some nights I miss the simplicity of carpentry—you build something, it stands or falls based on your skill, and that's that. Running a hotel is messier, more complicated, more dependent on human nature's unpredictability. But it's also richer, fuller, more connected to the actual lives people lead.

Next week we're expecting a family reunion party in the dining room—the Andersons celebrating their grandfather's eightieth birthday. The week after, a temperance meeting is scheduled (Mrs. Hutchinson insisted we were the only space large enough, and how could I refuse?). Commercial travelers will come and go, farmers will stop by for their evening pints, and no doubt something unexpected will happen that I'll need to handle.

This is my life now—part carpenter, part innkeeper, part counselor, part referee, part witness to the endless parade of human hopes and fears, joys and sorrows. Mary Jane says I've found my calling, though I suspect she's being generous. I'm just trying to run an honest business, provide for my family, and treat people decently.

But I will say this: there are worse ways to spend your days than watching the world pass through your front door, sharing in small ways in other people's stories, and building something—not with wood and nails this time, but with hospitality and human connection.

And on that note, I'll close this journal, check the doors one final time, and head upstairs to where Mary Jane sleeps and our children dream. Tomorrow will bring new guests, new stories, new challenges. But for now, Kemp's Hotel is quiet, secure, and at peace.

---

Written by lamplight at Kemp's Hotel, Fredericksburg, Norfolk County

James Abraham Kemp, Proprietor

October 1873

==============================

3)  Here is the Video Overview of this post by Google NotebookLM:  

4)  This is historical fiction based on the facts that are available for the James and Mary Jane (Sovereen) Kemp family.  It is based on social history and society norms at the time and place. The events noted and the non-family persons involved are fictional. It might have happened this way, since James Abraham Kemp was an Innkeeper in the early 1870s.

5)  I had to tell this story. Each ancestor faces joys and challenges in their life, and telling stories about them helps our descendants understand their parents lives and their own lives. 

==============================================

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

The URL for this post is:  

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.  Note that all comments are moderated, so they may not appear immediately.

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Findmypast Friday -- Discover Your Ancestor's University Days With Our Latest Releases

 I received t his information from Findmypast today:

==================================

This week, we're bringing you scholarly records and Irish newspapers for St Patrick's Day.

Find ancestors who attended University College London in our latest record releases, and delve deeper into their higher education. Search student registers, diploma examinations, and more, alongside more brand new newspaper pages from across Ireland to mark St Patrick's Day.

College of Preceptors, Student Registers and Diploma Examinations, 1881-1931

If your ancestor trained as a teacher during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, you may find them listed in this unique collection of student registers and diploma examination records. Spanning 1881-1931, these detailed records can help you find out more about teacher training, including examination dates and results, schools attended, and the dates diplomas were awarded.

University of London School Register 1831-1890

Delve into this unique collection of 19th-century school registers for the University of London (later University College London) to learn more about your ancestors who attended school at this pioneering academic institution. School registers can help you to uncover new details about your scholarly ancestors, such as their age, the dates they attended school, their father's name and their address.

Celebrate St Patrick's Day with new newspapers

Four new Irish titles, updates to a further 29 titles, and over 215,000 more pages are ready for you to explore.

New titles:

• Blarney — 1886
• Kilkenny People — 1895, 1898, 1905–1919
• Magee’s Weekly Packet — 1777–1785, 1787–1790, 1792–1793
• PAT — 1881–1882
• World (Dublin) — 1840–1851

Updated titles:

• Anglo-Celt — 1850–1857, 1871–1873, 1890–1896
• Belfast Linen Trade Circular — 1852–1856, 1858–1877, 1880–1884
• Belfast Telegraph — 2015–2018
• Catholic Standard — 1963
• Cork Free Press — 1910–1915
• Cork Weekly Herald — 1874–1881, 1883–1884, 1887–1896
• Dublin Evening Telegraph — 1883–1885
• Dublin Hospital Gazette — 1845–1846, 1854
• Eastern Post — 1926
• Evening Irish Times — 1918
• Evening News (Dublin) — 1863–1864
• Galway Weekly Advertiser — 1830–1839
• Irish Field — 1870–1880, 1888–1896, 1911
• Irish Textile Journal — 1886–1892, 1895–1896
• Larne Reporter and Northern Counties Advertiser — 1885
• Morning Mail (Dublin) — 1871–1879, 1896
• Nenagh Guardian — 1878–1879, 1885–1899
• North Antrim Standard — 1890–1906, 1908–1920, 1922
• Northern Standard — 1872–1880, 1882–1884, 1887–1890, 1892–1896, 1914, 1916–1919
• Peterborough Advertiser — 1975
• Saturday Record (Ennis) — 1898–1929, 1931–1936
• Skibbereen & West Carbery Eagle — 1870, 1872–1874, 1876–1882, 1884–1885, 1887–1921
• Tuam Herald — 1873–1878, 1883–1909, 1911
• Warder and Dublin Weekly Mail — 1902–1909
• Waterford Mail — 1870, 1872–1896
• Waterford Mirror and Tramore Visitor — 1808–1809, 1813, 1827–1836, 1841–1843
• Waterford News — 1872–1880, 1882, 1884, 1886–1896
• Western People — 1913–1920
• Westmeath Guardian and Longford News-Letter — 1835–1840
• Grief and resilience in the Blitz

What was it like to experience loss in the Second World War? Listen to the latest episode of A Family History of Wartime Women, with special guest Lucy Worsley, below, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Subscribe or follow on your favourite platform so you'll never miss a moment.

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See all of my posts about Findmypast at   https://www.geneamusings.com/search/label/FindMyPast

Disclosure: I have a complimentary subscription to Findmypast, and have accepted meals and services from Findmypast, as a Findmypast Ambassador. This has not affected my objectivity relative to Findmypast and its products.

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Added and Updated MyHeritage Record Collections - Week of 13 to 19 March 2026

  The following Record Collections were ADDED or Updated in the MyHeritage Collections Catalog during the week of  13 to 19 March 2026:

• MyHeritage Family Sites (Family Trees), Updated Mar 18 2026, 99,457,638 entries
• Filae Family Trees (Family Trees), Updated Mar 18 2026, 314,083,516 entries
• FamilySearch Family Tree (Family Trees), Updated Mar 18 2026,   1,238,911,114 entries
• Geni World Family Tree (Family Trees), Updated Mar 18 2026, 372,161,507 entries
• Search Connect™ - Searches by MyHeritage Members (Family Trees), Updated Mar 11 2026, 561,725,450 entries
• MyHeritage photos & docs (Images), Updated Mar 18 2026, 472,329,393 entries
• MyHeritage members (Family Trees), Updated Mar 18 2026, 77,350,664 entries
• MyHeritage Family Trees (Family Trees), Updated Mar 18 2026, 6,791,535,684 entries
• Netherlands Newspapers from OldNews.com (Newspapers), Updated Mar 18 2026, 19,441,002 pages in 1418 newspaper titles
• Spain Newspapers from OldNews.com (Newspapers), Updated Mar 17 2026,   21,746,616 pages in 2,933 newspaper titles
• United Kingdom Newspapers from OldNews.com (Newspapers), Updated Mar 15 2026, 13,870,967 pages in 302 newspaper titles
• Canada, Quebec Marriages, 1820-1917 (Marriage & Divorce), ADDED Mar 15 2026, 2,548,707 records
• Netherlands, Names & Stories in Newspapers from OldNews.com (Newspapers), ADDED Mar 15 2026, 108,640,413 records

                                       =========================== 

There are 2 ADDED record collections in the list this past week, and MyHeritage now has a total of  7,534 record collections (an increase of 1 collection from last week).  The overall collection has 39,062,194,067 records or entries (an increase of about 116 million entries from last week).  

The number of entries in the family tree collections were last updated this week. 

See previous Genea-Musings posts about MyHeritage record collections and features in https://www.geneamusings.com/search/label/MyHeritage.com.

                          =========================================

Disclosure: I receive a complimentary Co mplete Plan subscription to MyHeritage, and have received other material consideration in past years. I uploaded my autosomal DNA raw data to their DNA product. This does not affect my objective analysis of MyHeritage products. I am a paid subscriber to Family Tree Webinars and love it.

The URL for this post is:  https://www.geneamusings.com/2026/03/added-and-updated-myheritage-record_0189957400.html

Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver

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 X, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below. Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com.  Note that all comments are moderated, so they may not appear immediately.

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Ask AI: Charles Auble's Last Day In Newark in 1864

 I wondered if the FREE AI tools could provide me with a story about the effect of moving from Newark, New Jersey to Terre Haute, Indiana in 1864 on my great-grandfather, Charles Auble (1849-1916).

 My genealogical sketch for Charles Auble is 52 Ancestors Friday: #14 Charles Auble (1849-1916), based on my genealogical research.

(AI NotebookLM Infographic of the life of Charles Auble at age 15 in 1864)

1)  My Prompt to free Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 was:  "Please write a story about Charles Auble at age 15 leaving Newark, New Jersey in 1864 and how it affected him."

2)  The AI tool responded with this story (yes, it is historical fiction, but the way it might have been): 

Charles Auble’s Last Day in Newark

The morning mist hung low over Newark's Fourth Ward on that September day in 1864, softening the edges of the brick buildings and cobblestone streets that fifteen-year-old Charles Auble had known his entire life. He stood at the front window of their house, watching the lamplighter make his final rounds, methodically extinguishing the gas lamps that had guided the night workers home. In a few hours, Charles would leave this view forever.

Behind him, the house hummed with the controlled chaos of a family preparing to depart. His mother, Sarah, directed the packing with the efficiency of a general commanding troops, her voice calm but firm as she supervised his older sisters, Frances and Mary. His father, David, had already left before dawn to finalize the sale of his boot and shoe business, a transaction that would fund their new life in the West—or what passed for the West in 1864. Indiana might as well have been California for how far it seemed from Newark.

"Charles," his mother called from the kitchen, "have you finished with your room? The wagon will be here by noon."

"Yes, Ma," he lied, not moving from the window. His room wasn't finished. His belongings sat in a sad pile on his bed—clothes, a few books, the carved wooden horse his grandfather had made when Charles was six. But he couldn't bring himself to pack them yet. Once they were in crates, once the door closed behind him for the last time, it would be real.

William, his older brother by four years, appeared at his shoulder. At nineteen, William seemed to Charles impossibly grown-up, already sporting the beginnings of a mustache and speaking with the authority of a man. The move to Terre Haute was William's idea, or at least he'd been the one to convince their father it was a sound decision. Better opportunities, he'd said. Growing city. Railroad connections. A chance to get in on the ground floor of something new.

"Saying goodbye?" William asked, following Charles's gaze out the window.

"I suppose," Charles said. "Seems silly. It's just a street."

"It's not silly," William said, and his voice was gentler than usual. "It's the only street you've ever known. When I was your age, I thought I'd live on this street forever, marry some girl from the neighborhood, take over Father's business someday." He paused. "Life has other plans sometimes."

Charles turned to look at his brother. "Do you ever wish... I mean, are you scared? About Indiana?"

William was quiet for a moment, considering. "Terrified," he finally admitted, and Charles was surprised by the honesty. "But that's how you know it matters. If it wasn't scary, it wouldn't be worth doing."

The door burst open and their youngest sister, eight-year-old Kate, rushed in, her face flushed with excitement. "Charles! Tommy Anderson is outside and says he wants to say goodbye! Can I tell him you'll come down?"

Tommy Anderson. Charles's best friend since they were both small enough to play marbles on the stoop. They'd attended school together, gotten into trouble together, shared dreams of becoming soldiers or explorers or railway engineers. Tommy wasn't going anywhere. His family had been in Newark for three generations and would probably be here for three more.

"Tell him I'll be down in a minute," Charles said.

Kate raced off, her boots clattering on the stairs. Sarah's voice called after her, "Katherine Auble, you stop that running this instant!" But there was no real anger in it. Even their mother's strict rules were relaxing in these final hours, as if the normal order of things had already begun to dissolve.

Charles climbed the narrow stairs to his room one last time. The space felt smaller than he remembered, or perhaps he'd grown larger. The wallpaper was faded where his shelf had hung, leaving a ghostly outline of the books that had lived there for years. He'd read every one of them at least twice—adventure stories mostly, tales of men striking out for new territories, facing danger with courage and ingenuity. He'd loved those stories. Now he was living one, and it felt nothing like the books.

He moved to the window and pushed it open, leaning out to catch the familiar sounds of his neighborhood. Mrs. O'Malley was hanging her washing in the yard next door, the same thing she did every Monday without fail. The whistle from the factory two streets over announced the change of shifts. A dog barked. Someone shouted in German from the shop on the corner.

All his life, Charles had taken these sounds for granted, never imagining they could be anything but permanent. Now he tried to memorize them, to fix them in his mind so perfectly that he could recall them whenever he needed to. But even as he concentrated, he felt them slipping away, becoming mere noise rather than the symphony of home.

"Charles?" His father's voice came from the doorway. "A word?"

David Auble looked tired. The past weeks of selling the business, arranging the move, saying his own goodbyes had aged him visibly. At forty-seven, he was starting over, and Charles could see the weight of that responsibility in the lines around his eyes.

"I know this is hard for you," David said, sitting on the edge of Charles's bed. "It's hard for all of us. Your mother cried herself to sleep last night, though she'd never admit it."

Charles said nothing, turning away from the window to face his father.

"But I need you to understand something," David continued. "I'm not doing this lightly. The shoe business here... it's changing. The big manufacturers are taking over, making everything cheaper, faster. A man with a small shop can't compete anymore. In five years, maybe less, I'd be out of business anyway."

"I know, Pa," Charles said. "William explained."

"William's a smart boy," David said. "But he doesn't know everything. The truth is, I'm doing this for you children as much as for the business. Here in Newark, everything is already decided. The same families run everything, the same names on the same shops, generation after generation. You'd grow up in my shadow, and when I'm gone, you'd live in William's shadow. But in Terre Haute..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "In Terre Haute, you can be whoever you want to be. You can make your own name."

Charles absorbed this, understanding for perhaps the first time that this move wasn't just about his father's business or William's ambitions. It was about possibility. About futures that hadn't yet been written.

"What if I don't know who I want to be?" Charles asked quietly.

David smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes. "Then you'll have time to figure it out. That's the gift of a fresh start, son. Nobody in Terre Haute knows you're the boy who fell in the creek behind the school, or who once ate so much pie at the church social he was sick for two days."

"You remember that?" Charles felt his face flush.

"I remember everything," David said, standing and placing a hand on Charles's shoulder. "And I'll remember Newark. We all will. But we'll make new memories too. Better ones, I hope." He paused at the door. "Tommy Anderson is still waiting outside. You should go see him. And Charles? Pack your things. The wagon really will be here at noon."

---

The stoop where Charles and Tommy had spent countless afternoons sat in the shadow of the house, worn smooth by years of boots and play. Tommy was sitting there now, tossing pebbles at a crack in the street with methodical precision. He was tall for fifteen, already showing signs of the man he'd become—broad-shouldered and strong-jawed. He looked up when Charles emerged.

"Thought you might not come down," Tommy said.

"I almost didn't," Charles admitted, sitting beside his friend. "Didn't know what to say."

"Yeah. Me neither."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the street. A cart rumbled past, the driver calling out his prices for vegetables. Mrs. Chen from three doors down hurried by with a basket of groceries, nodding at the boys. Everything was so utterly normal that Charles felt a surge of anger. How could the world just continue as if nothing was changing?

"You'll write?" Tommy finally asked.

"Of course. Every week, probably."

"You'll forget," Tommy said, but not meanly. "You'll get to Indiana and meet new people and have new adventures, and Newark will seem small and far away."

"No," Charles protested. "I won't forget. You're my best friend."

Tommy looked at him, and there was something adult in his expression, something that saw farther than Charles could. "We're fifteen, Charlie. By the time we're twenty, we'll be different people. You'll be different, I'll be different. That's just how it works."

"That's not true," Charles said, but even as he said it, he wondered. Would he be different? Would Terre Haute change him into someone who didn't remember these streets, this friendship, this life?

"My Pa says your Pa is brave," Tommy offered. "Says it takes guts to start over like that."

"My Pa says we didn't have a choice."

"Maybe both things are true," Tommy suggested. "Maybe brave is doing what you have to do even when you're scared."

They talked for another hour, about nothing and everything. Tommy told him about Mary Sullivan, the girl in their class he'd been sweet on but never had the courage to approach. Charles confessed he'd always hated learning Latin but pretended to like it because Tommy was so good at it. They made elaborate plans to visit each other—Tommy would come to Indiana in the summer, Charles would return to Newark at Christmas—plans they both knew, on some level, would never happen.

When the wagon finally arrived, pulled by two sturdy horses and driven by a gruff man named McCreedy whom David had hired for the job, the reality of departure could no longer be avoided. The family's belongings were loaded with surprising speed—furniture, crates, trunks, the accumulation of a lifetime that somehow fit into one wagon.

Sarah gathered the children for a final moment inside the empty house. Their footsteps echoed on the bare floors. "Say goodbye to the house," she instructed. "Thank it for sheltering us all these years."

Kate immediately burst into tears. Little Anna, only four years old, joined in sympathetically without really understanding why. Even Frances, usually so composed, had tears running down her cheeks. William kept his face carefully neutral, but his jaw was tight.

Charles moved through the rooms one last time. The parlor where they'd gathered for family prayers every evening. The kitchen where his mother had taught him to roll pastry dough. The dining room where they'd celebrated every birthday, every holiday, every small triumph. The stairs he'd climbed thousands of times, his hand wearing a smooth spot on the banister rail.

Outside, the neighbors had gathered—not a formal farewell party, but a spontaneous collection of familiar faces. Mr. Patterson from the grocery. The Kowalski family from across the street. Old Mrs. Henderson who'd lived in the neighborhood longer than anyone could remember. They called out wishes for safe travel and good fortune, the kind of hollow pleasantries people offer when they don't know what else to say.

Tommy stood apart from the crowd, hands in his pockets. When Charles approached him for the final goodbye, Tommy thrust out his hand for a formal handshake, man to man.

"Good luck, Charles Auble," he said.

"Good luck, Tommy Anderson."

They shook hands, both squeezing harder than necessary, as if that could somehow preserve the friendship. Then Tommy turned and walked away, not looking back. Charles watched him go, understanding instinctively that Tommy was right—they would write for a while, the letters would grow less frequent, and eventually they would stop altogether. They would become stories they told other people: "I had a friend once, back in Newark..." or "My best friend from when I was a boy..."

"Charles!" his father called. "Time to go!"

He climbed onto the wagon beside William. His mother sat up front with the driver, holding Anna in her lap. Kate and Frances were in the back with the trunks, already wrapped in shawls against the September chill. The driver made a clicking sound, and the horses began to move.

Charles watched his street roll by—the stoop, the corner store, the church where he'd been baptized, the school where he'd learned to read. Mrs. O'Malley's washing still hung on the line. The dog was still barking. The factory whistle blew again.

As they turned the corner and the Fourth Ward disappeared from view, Charles felt something shift inside him. It wasn't quite grief and not quite excitement, but something in between—a strange, hollow feeling of doors closing and opening simultaneously.

"You all right?" William asked quietly.

Charles nodded, not trusting his voice.

"It gets easier," William said. "The not knowing what comes next. After a while, it starts to feel like freedom instead of fear."

The wagon rolled on through Newark, past the city center, toward the train station where they would board the cars for the first leg of their journey west. Charles kept his eyes forward now, resisting the urge to look back. What was done was done. Newark was behind him, and somewhere ahead—across miles of countryside he'd never seen, in a city whose streets he couldn't yet imagine—his new life was waiting.

By tonight, he would sleep in a different bed, in a different state. By next week, the details of these streets would begin to blur. By next month, he would know new streets, new friends, new routines. And years from now—though he couldn't know it yet—he would leave Terre Haute for Chicago, and Chicago for San Diego, always moving, always seeking, never quite settling, as if that day in Newark had set something restless loose inside him that would never be satisfied with staying in one place.

But for now, on this wagon, on this September afternoon in 1864, Charles Auble was simply a fifteen-year-old boy leaving home for the first time, carrying with him everything he'd been and everyone he'd known, not yet understanding that you can never really go back, that home becomes a memory the moment you leave it, and that the boy he was would slowly be replaced by the man he would become—a painter, a husband, a father, a union member, a westward traveler following the same restless path that had started on this day, on this wagon, leaving Newark behind.

The city fell away. Fields opened up on either side of the road. And Charles Auble, who had never been more than twenty miles from his birthplace, began the journey that would define the rest of his life.

---

Years later, when Charles was an old man living in San Diego, he would sometimes think of that last day in Newark. The details had faded—he could no longer remember exactly what Tommy had been wearing, or which neighbors had come to say goodbye, or whether it had been cloudy or clear. But he remembered the feeling: that strange mixture of loss and possibility, fear and excitement, endings and beginnings. And he understood, finally, that leaving Newark hadn't been an ending at all. It had been the first chapter of a story that would take him places he couldn't have imagined, make him into someone he couldn't have predicted, and give him a life richer and stranger than any of the adventure books he'd read as a boy on that vanished street in that distant city.

But he never forgot Tommy Anderson. And sometimes, in quiet moments, he wondered what had become of his friend, whether Tommy had stayed in Newark as he'd planned, whether he'd married Mary Sullivan, whether he'd taken over his father's business. Charles never wrote to find out. Some memories, he'd learned, were better preserved as they were—perfect and unchanging, like a photograph that never yellows with age, capturing not what was, but what felt true.

The wagon had moved forward, and Charles had moved with it, and that was all the story there was.

---

Note: This is a work of historical fiction. While based on the documented life of Charles Auble (1849-1916), who moved with his family from Newark, New Jersey to Terre Haute, Indiana around 1864, the specific details, dialogue, thoughts, and events in this story are imagined.

==============================

3)  Here is the Video Overview of this post by Google NotebookLM. 

4)  This is historical fiction based on the facts that are available for the David and Sarah (Knapp)  Auble family and Charles Auble's life.  It is historical fiction based on social history and society norms at the time and place, so it is likely realistic. Charles Auble became a home pinter and decorator. It might have happened this way.

5)  I had to tell this story -it's a Turning Point. Each ancestor faces challenges in their life, and telling stories about them helps our descendants understand their parents lives and their own lives. 

==============================================

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

The URL for this post is:  https://www.geneamusings.com/2026/03/ask-ai-charles-aubles-last-day-in.html

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.  Note that all comments are moderated, so they may not appear immediately.

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