Episodes
June 30, 1971: The Last Letter of the Month
Send us a text This is the last letter my dad wrote in June 1971 — a month that spanned open heart surgeries, flash floods, military cloud seeding, and long days for my mom at Wilford Hall. Now it’s the 30th. My mom has just a few days left in the Air Force, and she’s preparing to step into motherh…
June 29, 1971: Cloud Seeding and Cardiac Surgery
Send us a text On June 29, 1971, my mom — Captain Sarah Allgood — was seated on a prep table at Wilford Hall Medical Center in San Antonio, training two younger nurses through a triple coronary artery bypass. She was over 30, pregnant with me, and had just four days left in the Air Force. She was p…
June 29, 1971: I Be Loving You
Send us a text My dad wrote this letter from Da Nang on June 29, 1971. It’s one of those days where his love for my mom just spills over—quietly, sweetly, completely. He tells her, “I be loving you,” and it’s not just a phrase. It’s the truth of how they lived—how they stayed connected every single…
June 28, 1971: The Quacks Salted the Clouds
Send us a text In this letter from June 28, 1971, my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, is nearing the end of her military nursing duties — just five days from maternity leave and three months pregnant with me. She’s tired, fed up with a chatty coworker, and not holding back about how much she misses my d…
June 27, 1971 – My Panties Are Wet Just Writing This Letter
Send us a text In this letter, written on June 27, 1971, Captain Sarah Allgood isn’t shy about how much she misses her husband — or how badly she wants him. It’s raw. It’s funny. It’s incredibly personal. And it’s real. From splitting headaches to bridge games, tacos, teenage neighbors asking awkwa…
June 28, 1971: More Than Love
Send us a text In this letter from June 28, 1971, my dad writes from Vietnam with tenderness, humor, and longing. He tells my mom how much he loves her — but also, how much he likes her. That mattered to both of them. My parents used to tell me that love alone isn’t enough to make a relationship la…
June 27, 1971 – Not a Cold Bastard: Love, War, and the Letters That S…
Send us a text This letter from Captain Dick Allgood, written on June 27, 1971, reveals the tender truth beneath his famously gruff exterior. “I am not a cold bastard,” he writes to his wife, “I just may present that on the surface.” And it’s true. Anyone who knew him knew he was a softy at heart —…
June 26, 1971: A Lonely Day, A Wittle Tear Break
Send us a text This project is starting to get heavy — not just because of how much they wrote, but because of what these letters carry. On June 26, 1971, my mom wrote two letters to my dad. She was pregnant with me, and he was across the world in Vietnam. They couldn’t call. There was no FaceTime.…
June 26, 1971: Pie Arrives, the Lines Are Down, and the Waiting Conti…
Send us a text On June 26, 1971, Dick writes from Vietnam after a quiet, unsettled day. Two new pilots have just arrived — one of them, nicknamed “Pie,” seems like a good guy and will soon become part of this story. The other is clearly nervous, a reminder that no matter how long someone’s been in …
June 25, 1971: The Kind of Love That Reaches You
Send us a text In this letter, my dad writes from Vietnam on June 25, 1971 — and something about it stopped me. Yesterday, my mom wrote about ESP. About how she could feel him reaching for her across the world. He hadn’t received that letter yet — she’d just mailed it. But somehow, he writes back w…
June 25, 1971: Love Delivered (or Not) by ESP and the U.S. Mail
Send us a text In this letter from June 25, 1971, Sarah writes to Dick on her day off — lazy, cozy, and full of longing. She didn’t get a letter that day, and it leaves her feeling empty inside. She knows he’s writing. She just doesn’t trust the U.S. Postal Service to get it right. Still, she finds…
June 24, 1971: “I Just Can’t Remember What Life Was Like When We Didn…
Send us a text After more than two weeks apart without a successful phone call, Dick and Sarah finally get to speak — even if the connection isn’t great. In this letter, written the same day from Da Nang, Dick reflects on how deeply their love has changed his life, how much he cherishes her voice, …
June 24, 1971: “Can You Believe That You and I Are a State of Mind?”
Send us a text In this deeply personal and poetic letter, Sarah writes to Dick from San Antonio after another brutally hot day in the operating room. She shares a poem about ESP and emotional connection — wondering aloud if their bond is so strong it transcends time, space, and reason. She also ope…
June 23, 1971: “Your Voice After Two Weeks”
Send us a text It’s June 23, 1971 — and after more than two weeks of missed connections and shutdown phone lines, the call finally goes through. Sarah hears Dick’s voice, and everything rushes in at once: the relief, the longing, the ache of being apart for so long. She writes this letter just afte…
June 22, 1971 – “You Better Be Saving a Whole Bundle of Kisses” (S.D.…
Send us a text On June 22, 1971, Dick Allgood hadn’t received any letters in three days—and it left him wondering if Sarah had forgotten to write. Of course, she hadn’t. But it speaks to how closely they watched the mailbag, how much those letters meant, and how deeply they missed each other. This …
June 21, 1971: The Broken Tape
Send us a text In this letter from June 21, 1971, Sarah writes to Dick after a crushing disappointment: the tape he sent her snapped halfway through playback. She had waited eagerly to hear his voice—only to cry for over an hour when it broke. The rain outside mirrors the ache inside as she describ…
June 21, 1971: A Quiet Letter From My Huby
Send us a text This letter might not look like much on the surface — it’s short, it’s simple, and nothing dramatic is happening. But that’s what makes it hit me. My dad wrote this to my mom, Sarah, on a slow Monday in Vietnam. He’d been on alert all day, but nothing happened. He couldn’t get throug…
June 20, 1971: His First Father’s Day — and a Love That Was Real
Send us a text It’s Father’s Day, June 20, 1971. And for the first time in writing, Sarah tells Dick what they’d both been hoping: he’s going to be a father. She’s writing from Texas. He’s flying rescue missions in Vietnam. They are thousands of miles apart — but what’s between them is something ra…
June 20, 1971: Midday in Vietnam — A Note to My Wife, Just Because
Send us a text It’s Sunday, June 20, 1971 — Father’s Day — and Captain Dick Allgood hasn’t been able to reach his wife Sarah on the phone for over two weeks. So around noon, while on alert in Vietnam, he picks up a pen and does the next best thing: he writes. This isn’t a long emotional letter — ju…
June 20, 1971: A Love Most People Never Find
Send us a text It’s past midnight in Vietnam, and Captain Dick Allgood has just stayed up trying to reach his wife Sarah by phone — again. They haven’t spoken in more than two weeks. But instead of going to sleep, he writes. Because he misses her. Because he wants her to know that she’s his home. T…
June 19, 1971: Roast Beef, Fireworks, and Raw Desire in Vietnam
Send us a text This is the 30th letter my parents exchanged since my dad left for Vietnam 54 days ago — and it still manages to surprise me. It’s June 19, 1971. My dad, Captain Dick Allgood, is in Vietnam. But instead of writing about danger or despair, he’s writing about fireworks, roast beef sand…
June 19, 1971: Coconut Cravings, Bra Sizes & Big Love
Send us a text It’s June 19th, 1971, and Sarah is in full pregnancy mode — craving coconut cream custard, upgrading her bra size (34DD, thank you very much), and missing Dick so badly it hurts. In this funny, raw, and tender letter, she shares everything from maternity fashion goals to her deep des…
June 18, 1971: The Harder Road, for Love
Send us a text In this letter from June 18, 1971, my dad, Dick, has just received a bundle of mail from my mom — three letters, a card, and a poem book — and he reads and rereads every word. It’s been days since he heard from her, and nearly two weeks since they’ve been able to talk on the phone — …
June 18, 1971: Love, on Toasted Bread
Send us a text In this letter from June 18, 1971, my mom, Sarah, is having a quiet day in San Antonio. She’s pregnant, seepy, and missing my dad in all the little ways — especially his cooking. She tries to recreate one of his signature breakfast sandwiches — bacon, eggs, cheese, lettuce, tomato — …