Tag Archives: World War II

I Will Remember

I will remember beyond the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month.

I will remember.

Great Uncle Durgin’s plane was shot down by the Luftwaffe. His body, never found.

His 19 years will not waste away in the Mediterranean Sea. One day—when the time is right—my second child will be named for him.

Casper Marshall Durgin Jr. served in World War II. His name is listed in a memorial inside St. Paul’s Cathedral.

I will remember my father could not watch Forest Gump because of the war scenes. No story or song need remind him of the Vietnam War. He understood—the real life version for those who’ve read The Hunger Games—what it meant when his country drew his number; his name.

Daddy sacrificed. Words cannot reclaim the unspoken pains he knew and saw. No matter how much time goes by, he will always recall memories from a far away land.

I will not forget the veteran I interviewed for a Veteran’s Day article in 2008. He did not want to talk to me, the reporter with pen and paper. Looking back now, I can’t blame him. I wanted to write a good story and meet a deadline.

I was 23. How could I relate to the horrors that flew home with the Afghanistan veteran? He spoke of nightmares, storms, distrust in the way things were and of how many homeless veterans had been forgotten.

Never again will I take the attitude of the 23-year-old I was. I will remember behind the names on every memorial, life was taken. Some of the soldiers who returned home brought war with them.

What or who will you remember today?

World War I Memorial on the South Carolinana Library wall.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

Boys at War

Boys went to war.

My great-uncle was one of them. His plane was shot down over the Mediterranean Sea in World War II.

Saint Paul’s  Cathedral lists his name in the American Memorial book in London.

My great uncle’s name in the Saint Paul’s Cathedral American World War II Memorial.


Now women serve, and I thank men and women for their dedication, training, and sacrifice that is beyond our imaginations.

But, I did not think it was fun to be a girl. Not the kind of girl I was.

The girl I was got picked on. When I escaped into the adventures of my imagination, I turned into anything I wanted.

Most of the time, I was a boy somewhere else kicking ass in basketball or war.

In reality, I had two left feet, and the only good hand I had was the one with which I wrote.

A great song and storytelling in the video below reminded me of why I originally wrote my book, Sons of the Edisto.


The video shows the emotion poured into the song. The main singer stands before a Union troop to rally them.

Drums make you feel you are marching right into the center of battle.

“This is it boys. This is war.”

There is that vulnerable moment.

“Oh, Lord, I’m still not sure what I stand for.”

In the American Civil War—as shown in FUN’s video—violence exploded on boys’ faces when they killed. Trenches were dug. Cannons shot. Boys became the type of men they never imagined.

What does the face of a boy who takes life for the first time look like? Can you save him?

The song, like one of my favorite shows Hell on Wheels, captures that violence and vulnerability.

You are now reading the words of a woman, who was told by friends and family she would make the perfect mother to a family full of boys.

Right now I have one boy in life.

I have two boys on 370 plus pages.

Despite influence of the strong-minded women in my family, I envisioned a book about two boys going to war literally and in their reality.

That alone—I believe—crosses every generation.

Owen Alston and JD Bannister had to go to war with town politics, their fathers, and each other.

I began in June 2006. In the years since I decided once I finish editing Sons of the Edisto, I will start the sequel.

Alright I confess, I have already started composing some scenes in the spring and early summer for the second book.

I believe in well-written women empowerment novels and stories.

As a writer, I still enjoy writing about boys who cannot help finding mischief.

What wars or turmoil do your characters face?

What carried over from your childhood into your stories?

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

The Histories of a World: Real and Fictional

Words and Photo by Rebecca T. Dickinson

Everything comes with history. Most people come with baggage. No matter the time period of your story, poem or the old newspaper article you have discovered as a source for a research paper, people of anytime can connect to history.

With my background in history, I have tried make it pop and sparkle for kids. In a fifth grade class—in which I recently substitute taught—fifth graders wanted to understand the death toll of World War II. How would they understand death, a reign of gun fire, bombings and some people who were at their worst?

I asked the students to stand. I selected more than half of the students, and told them to sit down. I asked those who remained standing to look around at their classmates in their seats. That might be an estimate of lives to never return home from a troop.

Or you take something with words that stirs the soul. Maybe a heavier band, Dropkick Murphies, and listen to its rendition of The Green Fields of France. You hear the story, the words, the pain and see it in the real images.

You break into a conversation about how Lord of the Rings relates to life. J.R.R. Tolkien went off to trenches with his best friends and classmates. Boys in fear laid down their lives in blood soaked mud and barbwire. Tolkien returned home without most of his friends. He started to write in the trenches.

What I admire about Tolkien is not so much the way he writes, but how much detail and history he invests into what he writes. He gives his world a history.

History of a World


A picture I took at the entrance of Mizpah Methodist Church outside of Bamberg, South Carolina. It is an original “meeting house” once used by more than one denomination.

In 2010, I sat in a class full of sci-fi writers. If I must label Sons of the Edisto, it falls somewhere in the historical/time period-family saga-coming of age genre. The guy who taught the class wrote mystery and some sci-fi. He talked about the creation of worlds.

I had to take a world lost to time and in the destruction of old buildings. When I started in 2006, I knew I had a heavy work load. I needed to research the wealth of the area and population, farming, business, style, births, African-American life, the growth of the middle class and the list goes on and on. I did this through pictures, old newspapers, books and interviews.

I learned from Tolkien. He wrote appendices found at the end of The Return of the King. I chose to write a series of prescripts or back stories. I wrote seven in all. They stand apart from my short stories, connected to  Sons of the Edisto, in the way they are written. The narrator of my prescripts is more like a historian.

I plan to share parts of the prescripts in a series starting in the next week. I may have one a week or one every other week, because as you know by now, I enjoy writing about writing and books.

Why the 1920′s?

The real question for me is: Why hasn’t the period between Reconstruction and the Great Depression been explored more in modern literature? In the past few years, I’ve noticed more coming out. Besides that fact, I am falling in love with writers from the age: Richard Wright’s Black Boy, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zora Neale Hurston and some work from Hemingway.

Not to mention all the fabulous clothes.

I look forward to sharing more with you. Thank you for reading.

  • For more information about Sons of the Edisto, please visit my ABOUT page.

In the Time of Hitler


I fell in love in the time of Hitler. Turmoil escalated the terror of what we-those of us who lived on the coast of the long, skinny state – when German submarines scaled our borders. The waves no longer reflected silver-blue of the moon. They shook in fear of what lay below their waters.

Two different sirens would sound from a watch tower. One alerted my hometown in Florida that planes flew above, or word reached us that German submarines waited like a shark drawn to blood. The first siren let my parents and I know it was time for a blackout.


A picture from Google images of a World War II watch tower in Florida.

Town officials rang the second siren, a fire alarm, one night. Townspeople gathered to learn where flames burned and smoke smothered. No one had a cell phone to call and tell everyone the officials had pulled the wrong siren.

Planes flew overhead. I could not tell if they were American or German planes, but a sky – once full of stars – was devoured by metal. Officials ordered a blackout. My parents closed every curtain in our small house and off went the lights.

I could not be with my love. Even when the lights came on, my great passion did not exist at home. All my parents had to read was the Bible and the Sears and Roebuck catalogue.

Many days in the summer I walked down dust roads to the town librarian’s house. She looked like a disciplined English governess, who would dab my cheek with a cloth if I cried. The librarian introduced me to my great love the day I opened Life magazine. I sat on her floor as the rain tip-tapped on her roof. The reporter’s words gripped me. Letter after letter wrapped around my heart, and circulated through my mind.

This was it; the beginning of life. A part of me would be reborn in the nineteen eighties. Even in my second form, I would not read all the words I desired in a lifetime.

My maternal grandmother grew up with little in Florida. She told me she often felt like an outcast. While she wanted to discover the world beyond Florida through books, her mother never stepped out of the house without wearing a dress, stockings, and a hat. Her father knew nothing of words except the ones he spoke.

Mimi’s curiosity about the world is reborn through me. Her need to know attitude defines a different mindset, which many still do not understand. The only person in my life to reach through my layers and grip the heart of who I am is her. Mimi knows beneath my wedding band words are wrapped around my finger. They cannot be seen except by those who look close enough.

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