Accent in first person prose

Getting a regional accent down is tricky, and, if it's not handled properly, it can lead to strained and sometimes incoherent prose. However, when an author really gets it right, it can give the reader a much better insight into the novel's characters. Recently, I've been re-reading one of the classics, The Yearling--a Pulitzer prize winning novel by Marjorie Rawlings. Ms. Rawlings didn't write in the first person, but she did capture the voice of the poor, backwoods characters of northern Florida in her dialogue. As her dialogue sparkles and her attention to detail flows through the novel, you can see why she won a Pulitzer.
I've been working on several novels set in the rural south during the late 1940s. When I started, the voice of the young boy telling the story in the first person, sounded as if he was in a northeastern finishing school. However, after an editor noted the problem, I started trying to write exactly how a 12 year old farm boy in the mid-south would speak. After I made that change, the characters began to take on life, and, when The Red Scarf , my first novel, was published, a friend stopped me on the street and commented, "Richard, I enjoyed your book. It sounded as if a young boy was telling the story." I knew right then that I might not have the dialogue and the boy's accent down perfectly, but I was on my way. Since then I've finished several other novels in the series and I think my 'voice' has improved. I have posted a few paragraphs from the sequel to The Red Scarf, Lyin' Like a Sorry Yard Dog. Let me know what you think.

September 23, 1945
Shoot, birthdays, they ain’t no big deal. Ya know why? Well, let me tell you just what I think about birthdays―they’s just for rich kids. Yeah, that’s right. Heck, around my house it’s like they never happen. Oh sure, Momma’ll smile, give me a hug, and say, “I hope you have a wonderful birthday, Richard,” but that’s about it; and outside of an extra trip to the picture show or something real little, I don’t get nothing.
You know, it seems like turning twelve oughta count for something, but no, not on your cotton-picking life. Yeah, I know it has to do with money—ha!—or no money might be a better way to put it. Anything around my house that costs money better be something to eat or wear because the Mason family ain’t gonna waste a nickel on stuff like a birthday.
Well, I guess you can tell I’m kinda all bent outta shape, and I’m sitting around feeling sorry for myself. You guessed it―not even a cheap card or a ticket to the picture show this year. Heck, this birthday just about hit the bottom of the barrel. But, hey, it’s durn sure a lot better than my birthday was last year. Shoot, this year we’ve done whipped them sorry Germans, and just a couple of weeks back the Japs surrendered after we hit ’em with them atom bombs. Heck, me and Daddy almost had our ears in the radio listening to that famous newscaster Walter Winchell tell about the surrender. Shoot, he talks so fast I can hardly understand him. Every broadcast he starts off with:
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea. Let’s go to press…”
Well, ’course, that sounds real good and important like he’s talking to almost everybody in the whole entire world, so we really listen up. Gosh, when he said, “Japs sign unconditional surrender papers,” Daddy jumped outta that chair hollering for Momma to come in from the kitchen, and I was yelling like some wild Indian. Wow, that was something else. So I guess I really should just be sitting up here in the hayloft thinking about how glad I am that the War’s over. Maybe, but, well, oh, you know, I do care about the War being over ’cause them sorry Germans wounded my Uncle Spencer in the knee and nearly shot down my Uncle J. R when he was bombing ’em. But heck, it’s still my birthday, so why can’t I be glad about the War being over and still be all wrinkled up about not getting nothing for my birthday?