Episodes

Send us a text Sarah’s first night in Miami is quiet and warm. She’s staying as a guest at Judy and Dick’s ultra-modern apartment, getting comfortable in a queen-sized waterbed and writing to Dick after a long travel day. The letter is full of easy moments and soft humor, but one line on the wall in her room lingers: “Love is a memory time cannot end.” It’s a quiet reminder of how strong their connection still is — even from half a world away. Support the show The Allgoods: Vietnam Through...

Send us a text On July 27, 1971, Sarah Allgood writes from San Antonio with a quiet update: she didn’t get on her scheduled flight to Miami. After a rough night and the toll of the Texas heat, she follows Dick’s advice — she rests. All day. In this letter, she shares what it feels like to listen to her body, to sleep in, and to be cared for — not by her husband, but by a five-foot teddy bear she’s named “Little Richard.” The letter is short, sweet, and deeply full of love — the kind of love...

Send us a text Dick is two days into trying to quit smoking, and it’s wearing him down. But what rises to the surface in this letter is his devotion. Even through cravings and restless sleep, he’s thinking about Sarah’s day — picturing where she is, what time it is for her, and who she’s with. He wonders if her friend Judy might be pregnant. He plans to record her some music. It’s a letter that shows just how close he’s trying to stay, even from a world away Support the show The Allgoods: ...

Send us a text n this letter from July 26, 1971, Sarah Allgood picks up a five-foot teddy bear and names him “Little Richard” — a stand-in for the real Richard, who’s still thousands of miles away in Vietnam. She’s just come from her four-month pregnancy checkup, she’s exhausted from the heat, and she’s doing everything she can to take care of herself and the baby. Along the way, she nearly faints, considers postponing her trip, and picks up a few classic comforts — like a stop by a place cal...

Send us a text On July 26, 1971, Dick writes to Sarah during a quiet alert day in Vietnam. With no flying and no action, he decides to test himself — carrying an open pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket all day without lighting a single one. The letter drifts between light updates and deeper reflections: dreams of Sarah and the baby, a card he found at the BX, and their fast-approaching anniversary. “I can’t think of a single unhappy moment in one year that pertains to our marria...

Send us a text Sarah writes from San Antonio on a quiet Sunday, still holding onto the sound of Dick’s voice after what might be their last phone call before Hawaii. With calls costing $25 — a major splurge for them — she stretches every word in her heart. She spends the day rereading his letters, doing laundry, getting ready for her OB appointment, and marveling at how little she’s showing for being four months pregnant. A quiet, tender letter from deep inside the wait. Support the show T...

Send us a text In this letter from Sunday, July 25, 1971, Dick Allgood comforts Sarah after a tearful phone call. With a mix of tenderness and humor, he tells her, “You will always be the biggest girl in the world in my eyes. Even big men have to cry and express their feelings — big girls do it a whittle more often. When you stop crying and worrying, I’ll start worrying.” Between love notes and practical R&R planning, Dick’s words offer steady reassurance in a world that felt uncertain...

Send us a text On July 24, 1971, Sarah Allgood writes to her husband Dick after hearing his voice over the phone — a rare gift while he’s serving in Vietnam. She’s emotional but trying to stay strong, counting down the final 45 days until they’re together again. In her letter, she shares updates on daily life, asks him to thank her mother for maternity clothes, and helps a friend coordinate a tape deck order — a reminder of just how limited communication was in a world without the internet, v...

Send us a text On July 24, 1971, Dick Allgood writes to his wife Sarah after spending his day off handling an assignment from his superiors. A local Vietnamese woman who worked in the hooch was flagged by the police for having an expired ID pass, and Dick was ordered to escort her through the renewal process. Between the Buddhist calendar, a language barrier, and a closed hospital, it turns into a headache — one he can’t finish himself. But what’s most striking is what never changes: his loya...

Send us a text In this letter from July 23, 1971, Sarah writes from San Antonio with updates on baby shopping, Dairy Queen cravings, and an orange sherbet cocktail recipe worth stealing. But under all the activity, there’s a deeper undercurrent of tension with her mother-in-law, loneliness without her husband, and a quiet determination to carve out some joy while he’s away. As their one-year anniversary nears and R&R grows closer, Sarah’s love comes through in the smallest details — from ...

Send us a text This is the second letter my father wrote to my mother on July 23, 1971 — from Da Nang, Vietnam. He wasn’t dodging bullets or flying missions. He was stuck on a quiet base, doing almost nothing — and he knew it. In this letter, he talks about how the Air Force feels like a “welfare society,” how little he’s being asked to do, and how strange it feels to be in a war where the mission is unclear and the days are mostly empty. He tells a story about trying to help a friend with ...

Send us a text It’s just after 7 a.m. in Vietnam when Dick writes this note — a quick hello to Sarah before the day begins. He’s full from breakfast, still warm from dreams of her, and completely wrapped up in longing. It’s short, sweet, and deeply personal — proof that even the smallest letter can carry the biggest kind of love. Support the show The Allgoods: Vietnam Through the Eyes of Love is a personal podcast project based on real letters exchanged between Capt. Richard Allgood and Ca...

Send us a text July 22, 1971. Sarah spends the evening with friends at Joe and Jean Sebato’s — enjoying wine, cherries jubilee, and a warm circle of people. But something’s missing. Her husband. The baby’s father. The other half of her world. What makes this letter so compelling isn’t just who’s in the room — it’s who’s not. Jean — who recently had an affair with Mike, their married friend — is playing hostess. Mike and Nancy aren’t there. And Joe — Jean’s husband — still doesn’t know. Or m...

Send us a text In this letter from July 22, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his wife, Sarah, with a confession: he didn’t wait to buy the record player like he said he would—he found a deal too good to pass up. Now their stereo system is complete, and he’s hoping she’s not upset. He shares this with humor, tenderness, and that familiar mix of longing and loyalty. From teasing about climaxing when he hears her voice, to signing off with a loving pat for their unborn baby, this letter is a...

Send us a text In this brief second letter from July 21, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood sends a tender note addressed to Miami—though his wife Sarah hasn’t even left Texas yet. He’s thinking ahead, making sure a love letter will be waiting for her when she arrives later that month. It’s short, affectionate, and full of quiet hope for the life they’re building—possibly even in Miami. He signs off with the kind of devotion that never took a day off. Support the show The Allgoods: Vietnam Thr...

Send us a text In this July 21, 1971 special delivery letter from Vietnam, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his wife, Sarah, with two things on his mind: their future stereo system—and how much he adores her. He describes taping hours of music, explains the mechanics of their new tape deck, and jokes that he bought a simple model “so I can’t fuck it up.” But beneath the humor and hi-fi plans is something deeper: unshakable love and pride. He calls Sarah his “wittle chick-a-dee” and ends the let...

Send us a text Sarah Allgood is counting down the days until she boards a plane for Miami — and just 49 more until R&R in Hawaii. In today’s letter, she shares her travel plans, reassures Dick about her pregnancy, and responds to his vivid descriptions of longing. There’s humor, heat, and deep concern as she asks him — again — to please take care of himself. Because the only thing worse than waiting would be if he got sick and couldn’t come. Support the show The Allgoods: Vietnam Throu...

Send us a text It’s July 20, 1971, and Captain Dick Allgood is writing from Vietnam to his wife Sarah in San Antonio. With just seven days to go before her Miami trip — and less than two months until their R&R reunion — both are counting the days. In this letter, Dick is physically tired from flying missions but emotionally steady and unwavering in his devotion. He reacts to Sarah’s updates about a failing marriage between mutual friends, Mike and Nancy, and makes it clear: that will ne...

Send us a text Captain Dick Allgood writes to Sarah from Vietnam on July 19, 1971, recounting a quiet day filled with small rituals — rereading her letters, walking to the BX, grabbing a hamburger and baked beans, and watching the movie Flap, starring Anthony Quinn. The film includes a line about “getting drunk on Grasshoppers” — a sweet, minty cocktail that, years later, would become one of Sarah’s favorite drinks. As usual, Dick ends the day with a “wittle love note,” making sure Sarah ...

Send us a text Sarah Allgood writes to her husband, Captain Dick Allgood, on July 19, 1971, with her usual mix of sharp wit, practical planning, and pure devotion. She’s booking flights, paying bills, teasing him about math, and dreaming of his kisses — all while tanning by the pool and keeping his picture on her pillow at night. In this letter, she asks what he wants for their anniversary and promises to pick out something “groovy” in Miami — maybe even a bikini. Her tone is flirtatious, f...

Send us a text In today’s letter from July 18, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his pregnant wife, Sarah, from alert duty in Vietnam. He reflects on their R&R options in Hawaii, the women in Sarah’s orbit — including friends recovering from illness and heartache — and his unwavering fidelity. What starts as a logistics update turns into one of the most vulnerable, explicit declarations of loyalty, desire, and devotion we’ve seen. It’s Dick at his most open — promising Sarah that no ma...

Send us a text This letter was written on July 18, 1971 — a quiet Sunday in San Antonio, and just a week before my mom would head to Miami to spend a month with her best friend Judy. She’s tired, not sleeping well, and feeling the heat. She writes about waking up “seepy,” eating toast and apple juice, and trying to pass the time — first at Jack in the Box, then watching TV with Joy, and later convincing her friends to split a banana split (even though, as she jokes, they only have one mouth...

Send us a text In this sweet and steady letter from July 17, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his pregnant wife, Sarah, from Vietnam — completely certain of the life they’ve built together. “You and me,” he writes, “we have found what they look for.” He’s thinking ahead to their R&R — maybe Kona Village, maybe Waikiki — weighing the options like a man who knows his wife loves her room service. But ultimately, he doesn’t care where they go. What he wants is simple: a big bed, some pr...

Send us a text This letter from my mom, Sarah Allgood, was written on a Saturday in July 1971. She’s pregnant, missing my dad, and doing her best to make it through another weekend alone in San Antonio—while newlyweds lounge by the pool just outside her window. She tells him about a dream that leaves her out of breath (yes, that kind of dream), shares a wild update from Tommy Anderson, and drops one of the most absurd gossip stories so far—including a clause that literally gives a woman own...