Episodes

Send us a text It’s July 5, 1971, and my mom—Captain Sarah Allgood—is writing from San Antonio in the middle of a hot summer day. My dad, Captain Dick Allgood, was stationed at a real wartime airbase in Da Nang, Vietnam. He’d just sent her a steamy Special Delivery letter, and she’s responding the only way she knows how: with longing, humor, and another quarter in the kitty. She writes about the ordinary things—boiled eggs, soap operas, pizza with neighbors, sunbathing in her “wittle pregna...

Send us a text On July 4, 1971, Captain Sarah Allgood wrote two letters to her husband, Captain Dick Allgood. She was pregnant, stationed in San Antonio, and just days away from separating from the Air Force. It was a holiday they normally spent together — with ribs, potato salad, and each other. But this year, they were apart. In her morning letter, she’s seepy, playful, and full of longing. By midday, she’s trying to make the most of the day but can’t shake the weight of missing him. She ...

Send us a text On July 4, 1971, my dad, Captain Dick Allgood, writes from Vietnam with his heart on full display. His letter isn’t about fireworks or freedom — it’s about the kind of love that endures across oceans, months, and war. He tells my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, how much he misses her, aches for her, and still remembers the exact week they fell deeply in love. Even in the middle of a war zone, he affirms his loyalty, defends the sacredness of their love, and promises to never touc...

Send us a text This letter from my dad, written on July 3, 1971, is full of tenderness, memory, and quiet ache. He’s writing from Vietnam — still on alert, still in danger — but what he talks about is baking brownies, missing my mom, and planning where to send her letters when she travels to Miami. He turned down a regular commission with the Air Force — a stable, lifelong career — because he never wanted to be separated from her again. That’s the kind of love they had. In this letter, he...

Send us a text It’s been 68 days since my dad left for Vietnam. And in that time, my parents have been writing constantly — sometimes more than once a day. These letters were their lifeline, their only way to stay connected across distance, danger, and everything they were missing in between. In this one, my mom writes about sewing a maternity swimsuit to fit her “wittle pregnant belly,” skipping dinner plans because of the Texas heat, and just wanting to stay in. It’s full of the kind of d...

Send us a text On July 2, 1971, my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, wrote two letters to my dad — both on the same day, but in completely different moods. The first one came after her three-month pregnancy checkup. She writes with excitement and relief — she’s healthy, the baby is growing, and her doctor is supportive of traveling to Miami for R&R. She shares flight plans, military red tape, and sweet memories of past Fourth of Julys with my dad. The second letter came late that night — af...

Send us a text My dad wrote this letter from Vietnam after helping one of his closest friends board a flight home. He says he was happy for him — but admits he was filled with envy. That could’ve been him. That should’ve been him. In this letter, he talks about catching a little sun, eating a decent steak at the club, and winding down with the guys who worked under him. But nothing — not beer, not books, not even a break from the rain — could distract him from the one thing he truly wanted:...

Send us a text This letter from my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, is pure gold. It’s July 1, 1971, and she’s funny, flirty, and a little bit filthy — all while pregnant, lonely, and trying to get through another day without my dad. She’s dreaming of a life where she can “sit back, rest, and become beautifully pregnant” — and she’s already putting quarters in the bank for their baby (me). She writes about a broccoli-cheese chicken casserole, jokes about a strapped-on teddy bear, and vents about...

Send us a text In this letter from July 1, 1971, my dad writes to my mom after receiving three letters and a card from her — and his mood lifts right off the page. He’s playful, sweet, and a little jealous as another friend prepares to head home from Vietnam. He jokes about never getting a tan, thanks to the monsoon rains, but says he still made time to “groove to his wife on the roof.” He tells her how proud he is that she’s finished working, and that he’s ready to keep her “busy” as his w...

Send us a text In this episode, I’m taking a moment to reflect on everything I’ve uncovered so far — from the day my dad deployed to Vietnam in late April 1971 through the end of June. My mom was still on active duty in San Antonio when she found out she was pregnant with me. My dad had just arrived in Vietnam, flying rescue helicopters with the 38th Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron. They were separated by a war, time zones, and a communication system that barely worked — and still, t...

Send us a text This is the last letter my mom wrote in June 1971. It’s also the end of Chapter 2 in this story — one month at a time, one letter at a time. She was 12 weeks pregnant with me and still writing every single day from San Antonio, where she was finishing her time as a U.S. Air Force nurse. My dad, Captain Dick Allgood, was still on alert in Vietnam — a rescue pilot who didn’t talk much about the war, but never missed a day writing to his wife. This is the 52nd letter in June, ...

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 motherhood. My dad is still in Vietnam, trying to hold it together the only way he can — by writing to her, every day, without fail. In this letter, he sends love, plans for the future, and plenty of h...

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 preparing to hand over her work — but not her standards. The procedure had been on bypass for over two and a half hours. And in the middle of it, she paused to write my dad in Vietnam. She also c...

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 day across an ocean and a war. He missed her so much he found himself pacing the floor, just needing to hold her. Meanwhile, back in San Antonio, my mom was nearing the end of her military serv...

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 dad. She also blames the endless rain on “the quacks salting the clouds” — a line that sounds like a joke, but isn’t. Between 1967 and 1972, the U.S. military really did seed clouds to alter the we...

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 awkward questions, and heartfelt longing, Sarah’s voice leaps off the page. She jokes about how hard it was to go four pages without writing “I love you.” She remembers the way Dick kissed her eyes a...

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 last. You have to like each other — genuinely. You have to enjoy who the other person is, day after day. This letter is full of raw emotion, sexual tension, and deep connection — but what lingers ...

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 — a man who loved fiercely, laughed loudly, and proudly identified as a tit man, even offering free Allgood T-shirts to any woman in the bar who’d change into one on the spot. But in Vietnam, even ...

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. No text. Just words written by hand — and a wait of days, maybe even a week, for each one to arrive. In her first letter, she is aching with loneliness. In the second, she softens a little, sha...

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 the Air Force, this place can shake anyone. Dick tries to call Sarah — again — but the call won’t go through. The overseas operator can’t make the connection, and Dick is left sitting with the sil...

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 with the same intensity, like he’s answering without even knowing it. He doesn’t call it ESP. He just calls it love. But it’s there — that connection. The kind that reaches you, even from thousan...

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 comfort in rereading his old letters, eating pineapple sandwiches in bed, and talking to her “beautiful, handsome husband by ESP.” And what’s remarkable is that — even though he hadn’t received h...

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, and how he can’t even remember what life felt like before they fell in love. He also shares his relief at finally getting a broken tooth fixed — and his raw, unfiltered frustration with the daily gr...

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 opens up about exhaustion, everyday frustrations, and the little joys that carry her through — a Coke, a kind doctor, a surprise visit from friends, and the comfort of writing to her husband from bed...