Episodes

Send us a text In this letter from July 16, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes from Vietnam with his usual mix of steady affection and quiet urgency. He reassures Sarah that he’s still writing every single day — even if the mail isn’t reaching her — and responds to her news that the tape machine chewed up his last recording. Not yet knowing she got it working again, he promises to make her a new one and send it soon. He tells her how much he loves the idea of her trying to cook for him — eve...

Send us a text In this tender letter from July 16, 1971, Sarah is feeling raw, restless, and deeply in need of connection. After a day of sunshine and swimming with friends, she comes home to six letters from Vietnam — and a wave of emotion she can’t quite outrun. “Today was one of those ache and cry days,” she writes. “Some days I actually hurt from loneliness and desire to be with you.” She tries to be strong. But this isn’t an Air Force officer kind of day — it’s a wittle girl weekend, f...

Send us a text This letter from July 15, 1971 was written by my dad, Captain Dick Allgood, from Vietnam to my mom, Sarah, back home in San Antonio. It’s soft, steady, and full of love — the kind of love that makes plans, sends letters ahead to new addresses, and counts quarters in “the pot” for future joy. He tells her he’s tired, not feeling great, but what pulls him through — always — is writing to her. It’s the first of two letters he wrote that day. He talks about their upcoming R&R...

Send us a text This is the second letter Dick Allgood wrote to Sarah on July 15, 1971 — and in it, he tells her “I love you” six times. It’s heartfelt, direct, and full of plans for the future. He’s thinking ahead to their upcoming move to Miami, coordinating where to send letters, and doing everything he can to stay close, even from across the world. He writes about work being a necessary evil, promises they’ll be OK, and closes the letter with deep reassurance: they are one — always have ...

Send us a text In this letter from July 15, 1971, my mom is doing what she did best — keeping it all together. She writes to my dad about a busy day filled with errands, phone calls, time with friends, and dinner at the Officer’s Club. There’s some tension in the background between people they knew, but she doesn’t dwell on it. The real heart of this letter is in the little things: finally getting his Special Delivery letter, wishing the mail had moved faster, and counting down the 54 days ...

Send us a text In this short but powerful letter, my dad writes from Vietnam about what truly matters in life — and what doesn’t. “My work and your thoughts on it will make our lives and our happiness,” he writes. “Money is not the key. Love and happiness is the only key of our love.” That line says everything about who he was. He reminds my mom that even though they’re far apart — even though the war has kept them from building a home together — their love is the life. Not a paycheck. ...

Send us a text On July 14, 1971, Sarah Allgood writes to her husband Dick from San Antonio, sharing a full day in vivid, personal detail — from a pregnancy scare and cravings to her upcoming trip to Miami, a phone call from her old hospital, and even a disturbing late-night incident upstairs involving two men and a fall from a balcony. Phone calls between Vietnam and home were rare — expensive, hard to connect, and limited to just five minutes. But Sarah, ever thoughtful, tells Dick they co...

Send us a text This letter was written 54 years ago , and it’s one of the longest ones yet — eight full pages of life, longing, and love. My mom was in San Antonio, a few weeks away from visiting her friend Judy in Miami. But instead of picking up the phone, she wrote her a letter — because long-distance calls were expensive back then, and this was how people stayed close. She tells my dad that she hates cooking — especially breakfast — and that he spoiled her by always doing it himself. ...

Send us a text On July 12, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood mailed five separate letters from Vietnam—all in one night—just to share a handful of candid helicopter photos with the woman he loved more than life itself. The pictures were a surprise gift from a fellow airman, but instead of keeping them to himself, Dick thought only of Sarah. In these short but sweet notes, we see a man who was thoughtful, intentional, and madly in love. He didn’t just send snapshots—he sent joy, affection, and a pi...

Send us a text In this letter, my mom writes, “I’m the luckiest girl alive.” And reading it now, I believe her. If someone loved me the way my dad loved her — I’d feel like the luckiest girl alive too. She had just received two letters and a tape from him in Vietnam. She tells him she could’ve sworn he was right there in bed talking to her. And then she laughs at her own voice on the tape she recorded back — calls it horrible, but says it’s sent in love. She’d just fixed the recorder that w...

Send us a text On July 12, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes the first of five letters to his wife, Sarah. It’s the day she’s officially discharged from the U.S. Air Force, and he fills the page with excitement, tenderness, and pride. He tells her to expect a wave of mail—each envelope packed with color photos from a recent helicopter flight in Vietnam, including a few candid shots of himself that he didn’t know were being taken. It’s a gesture of love, meant to make the distance feel a lit...

Send us a text This letter is pure devotion. My dad had just gotten off the phone with my mom after finally reaching her — the lines in Vietnam had been down all day, and he was antsy, pacing, waiting to hear her voice. But once he did, something opened up in him. This isn’t just a letter about a phone call — it’s a letter about everything he felt but couldn’t fit into those five minutes. He tells her, “You are my wittle chickadee.” He says he has a “great big pile of love” for her — so muc...

Send us a text In this letter, my mom is still glowing from hearing my dad’s voice — one of those rare phone calls that managed to break through Vietnam’s overloaded phone lines. She tells him there’s only one better way to be woken up — by his kiss, his touch, and the kind of love they shared so easily. But if she can’t have that, a phone call will do just fine. She pours a glass of their favorite apple juice, tries to settle into a quiet day of old movies and sweet memories, and even make...

Send us a text This letter is such a snapshot of who my dad was. Written from Vietnam on July 10, 1971, it moves fast — from longing and sex to plane tickets and savings accounts — and somehow it all makes sense. That was my dad: wildly in love with my mom and completely grounded in taking care of her. He was always financially minded, even back then. Practical, methodical, and constantly thinking ahead — he handled money with care because he saw it as a way to protect his family. And he di...

Send us a text In this letter from July 10, 1971, my mom wakes up craving waffles — but my dad isn’t there to make them. So she goes to Oscar’s with a friend instead. It’s such a small moment, but it says so much. My dad wasn’t just a romantic. He was a cook — a good one. Even later in life, when he opened the Allgood Bar & Grill, waffles were always on the menu. It wasn’t just about food — it was how he loved people. This letter is filled with all the usual things: friendship, films,...

Send us a text In this letter from July 9, 1971, Sarah leans into the lifelines that are getting her through: her deep love for Dick, the baby growing inside her, and the women around her who keep showing up. From cherry cheesecake and grocery runs to tearful toasts and going-away parties, her community in San Antonio becomes a stand-in for the partner she misses so badly. Jan, Pam, and others help her prepare for a farewell dinner—one filled with emotion, laughter, and quiet strength. Even...

Send us a text In this letter from July 9, 1971, Dick writes from Vietnam with tenderness, apology, and longing. He’s on alert again, soaking up sun on the roof, trying to pass the time—but what’s really on his mind is Sarah. He congratulates her on her promotion (belatedly, with an honest apology), and dreams of their reunion—both emotional and physical. He tells her he can’t define the word love, but knows that what he feels for her is real and unshakeable. He misses her with an ache that...

Send us a text On July 8, 1971, my mom was just starting to imagine a new kind of life. She had left the Air Force behind and was writing from San Antonio, pregnant with me and dreaming about where she and my dad might end up. In this letter, she asks her friend Judy to send the want ads from the Miami Herald — and you can feel how real that hope was. What’s incredible is: they made it. They eventually did move to Miami, and that’s where I was raised — until Hurricane Andrew turned our worl...

Send us a text On July 8, 1971, my dad was on alert again — another day of waiting, paperwork, and passing time. But in the middle of it, he sat down to write to my mom. This letter is tender, grounded, and a little raw, filled with his signature blend of blunt honesty and deep love. He tells her she’s his life — his wife, his lover, and the mama of their babies. He imagines what she must look like pregnant, tells her he’ll be the most loving husband in the world, and reminds her again and ...

Send us a text My dad could always sniff out a good deal—and he was pretty proud of the pair of giant speakers he picked up at the BX in Vietnam for a steal. He didn’t have anything to play through them yet, but that didn’t stop him from planning for the life they’d build together. But the real heart of this letter is the dream he shares: watching my mom brush her hair in front of the mirror while he sat on their bed. It’s soft, vivid, and full of love. My dad could come off as tough or g...

Send us a text In this letter from July 7, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his wife, Sarah, from Vietnam, just after receiving three of her letters — one written on Thursday and two on Friday, the day of her farewell party. He talks through plans for their upcoming R&R in Hawaii, sharing flight arrival times and working out how she’ll get her ticket while visiting Miami. Even from halfway across the world, he’s doing his best to make sure she continues to receive his letters, no ma...

Send us a text On July 7, 1971, my mom was officially discharged from the Air Force. At 30 years old, pregnant with me, she became a dependent wife — no longer an officer, no longer in uniform, and no longer working long hospital shifts. In this letter, you can hear her exhale. She writes about discharge pay, a sandwich and Nehi grape soda, and how much better she feels knowing she’s finally home for good. She also made a deal with the mailman — Joe — who agreed to take her letters each mor...

Send us a text It’s Sarah’s last full day of work in the Air Force, and everyone shows up to send her off. From enlisted techs to commissioned officers, they take her to the NCO Club, buy her beer, and give her a card that makes her cry. She drinks more than usual — martinis, pink ladies, Kahlúa — and writes to Dick while still a little buzzed. She’s tired, emotional, and deeply grateful. This is the only letter from July 6. Dick doesn’t write again for a few days — likely because he sent a...

Send us a text n today’s letter from July 5, 1971, my dad writes from Vietnam after a full day on alert—“no real action or excitement,” he says. But I can’t help wondering if that’s the truth, or just the version he was allowed—or willing—to share. Like so many servicemen during the war, he may have been trained not to say too much. But what he does write is full of emotion: he misses her, he misses the baby she’s carrying, and he longs for the day he can finally touch her again. He tells...