As a teenager in high school, one of my least favorite classes was History. All that memorization of dates, battles, and which president was known for what, bored me to tears. It was dry. It was boring. It was the best insomnia meds I’ve ever had.
The summer between my junior and senior year, I picked up a copy of Gone With the Wind. Now here was history worth reading. At first I skimmed over the battles, but then as I continued on with the book, I read more and more of the actual history contained in the story.
This book was about people. Those who lost loved ones, those who waited at home for a letter, for some indication that their husband, brother, father or son was still alive.