Episodes

Send us a text June 10, 1971. My father was flying with the HH-43 Pedro rescue team in Vietnam. My mother was an Air Force nurse stationed in Texas—eight weeks pregnant with me and counting the days until they could be together again. In this letter, she writes after an exhausting day in the O.R., her body aching from long shifts and early pregnancy, her heart aching with longing. She records a tape for my dad—warning that some parts are “rather personal”—and wonders how he’s holding up. ...

Send us a text In this June 10, 1971 letter from Vietnam, my dad—then flying rescue missions with the U.S. Air Force Pedro team—writes to my mom about R&R plans, tracks her pregnancy dates, and talks about how he’s passing the long hours on alert by reading pocket novels. My dad loved to read all his life. In fact, one of the hardest parts of his final years was losing his sight when cancer spread to his eyes—taking away the books he’d always loved. That loss is one of the reasons I s...

Send us a text In this playful, passionate letter from June 9, 1971, my mom writes to my dad with longing and complete honesty. She reassures him about her faithfulness, jokes about how things will be when they are finally together again — when she’ll be visibly pregnant with me — and reflects on how their love first began. “How’s it going to be for you to make mad and passionate love to a very pregnant wife?” she asks him. “At any rate, you’d better get prepared — I’ll probably attack yo...

Send us a text “I Couldn’t Call — My Eyes Clouded with Tears” — June 8, 1971 Description: This letter from June 8, 1971, left me in tears. My dad, writing from Vietnam, finally tells my mom why he never called her from the airport before he deployed. He says it took him four tries just to address a card — because every time he tried, his eyes would swell up with tears and he couldn’t see. “I know that I wouldn’t be able to talk,” he writes. “I just couldn’t.” The rest of the letter is...

Send us a text In this short but deeply emotional letter from June 8, 1971, my mom writes to my dad after recording her very first tape to send him in Vietnam. She’d waited for her tape recorder to arrive — and now that it has, she spends more than an hour trying to get her first message just right. Through tears, she tells him everything she’s feeling. “I had to pause for tears so I could talk,” she writes. This letter reminds me how hard they were both working to stay connected — not ...

Send us a text In this letter from June 9, 1971, my dad writes one of the most vulnerable and pivotal letters of his deployment. He’s just been selected for a Regular commission — a path that would keep him in the Air Force for several more years, requiring more flying, more moves, and more time apart from my mom. But instead of deciding alone, he turns to her with deep love and respect and asks: What kind of life do you want? “Would you like a life in the Air Force and all the things t...

Send us a text n this letter from June 7, 1971, my dad — writing from Vietnam — pours out his heart to my mom. He talks about everyday things: bank accounts, sending money home, chatting with fellow airmen. But what really comes through is how much he loved her — and how excited he was about the baby they were expecting. He calls her his “lover, wife, and mother of my baby.” I’m reading these words more than fifty years later — as the child they were writing about — and it’s incredible ...

Send us a text It’s June 7, 1971. Today my mom, Sarah Allgood, writes with a light and playful tone, even while missing my dad deeply. She shares her day, a bit of gossip, her efforts to stay healthy for her pregnancy with me, and the simple ways she and her friends found comfort during these long months apart. As their daughter reading this now, I’m struck again by how deliberately my parents kept their connection alive—through love, humor, and hope—while separated by a war. Support the ...

Send us a text In this heartfelt letter from June 6, 1971, Dick writes to Sarah after receiving a welcome surprise: three letters from her in one day. He shares the story behind the Smoky Topaz ring he sent from Bangkok, offers practical advice on navigating military red tape, and vents his frustration with bureaucracy — all while reaffirming his unwavering love. More than anything, this letter is about emotional unity: how their love only makes sense when they’re together. As Dick puts it, “...

Send us a text In today’s letter, Dick writes from Vietnam with a blend of laughter and perspective. He’s received a handmade “dong sock” from Sarah — a hilarious and intimate gift that sets the tone — but as he sits in the sun and reflects, he shares something deeper. He explains why, despite the distance and the war, he’s grateful for the timing of his deployment: because it allowed him and Sarah the chance to fall in love, get married, and now, prepare to become parents. This letter is...

Send us a text In today’s letter, Sarah writes from the apartment she once shared with Dick—the same one where their love story unfolded before Vietnam. Now pregnant and alone, she spends her day reading and rereading his letters, talking to his photo, and remembering the little things that still make her feel close to him: grape soda, peanut butter, and their favorite show from Vegas. She snaps back at a nosy coworker, skips the club, and stays in to “groom for her husband.” It’s a mix of ...

Send us a text In this letter from June 4, 1971, Dick shares quiet reflections from a rare day off in Vietnam—until a fire near the post office nearly sends his heart racing. For a moment, he fears that Sarah’s letters might have gone up in smoke. Luckily, only the club’s liquor stash is lost, prompting a bit of sarcastic humor and suspicion of an inside job. But at the center of this letter is love: Dick sends a special airmail letter, hoping it reaches Sarah in time for the weekend when mai...

Send us a text In this June 3rd letter from Vietnam, Dick Allgood writes to his pregnant wife Sarah during a long alert shift. He sends Polaroid snapshots, cracks jokes about his young fellow airmen, and yearns for home with a mix of tenderness and teasing humor. Beneath the banter, you can hear his ache to be by Sarah’s side—missing her body, her letters, and their growing baby. This episode marks another day in the year-long separation that tested but never shook their devotion. Even in a...

Send us a text On June 3, 1971, my mom did what only she could do: she powered through a brutal wave of early pregnancy symptoms — vomiting, diarrhea, and all — and still showed up for the night shift. She worked in the OR, short-staffed, with a drunk supervisor, missing paperwork, and major heart cases on the board. In the middle of it all, she told the U.S. Air Force she wouldn’t stay on past her requested date. She stood up for herself, her pregnancy, and her right to leave after her pro...

Send us a text On June 2, 1971, while Dick serves on alert in Vietnam, Sarah fights her own battle on the home front — against a broken military bureaucracy trying to force her into more months of work during her pregnancy. In this bold, funny, and sharply worded letter, she tells them exactly where to put it — and reclaims control over her own timeline. Through a haze of exhaustion, missing slips, and a supervisor who smells like gin, Sarah still finds joy in prenatal class, laughs with fr...

Send us a text In this heartfelt letter from June 2, 1971, Dick writes to Sarah with deep affection, offering updates from Vietnam while encouraging her to take care of herself and their unborn child. He assures her of his constant love, fantasizes about their reunion, and expresses excitement about a future filled with love, laughter, and possibly even home movies. As always, his humor, warmth, and devotion shine through — reminding us all what it means to stay connected across oceans and ti...

Send us a text Welcome back to The Allgoods: Vietnam Through the Eyes of Love. It’s June 1, 1971, and a brand-new chapter begins. In today’s episode, Sarah writes from San Antonio after receiving a surprise in the mail — a ring from Dick that fits perfectly and feels like it was made just for her. Her excitement over the ring is only matched by the five love letters that arrived with it. She shares every moment with her friend Joy and treasures the words from both Dick and his father, findi...

Send us a text Welcome to a new month in The Allgoods: Vietnam Through the Eyes of Love. With this June 1st letter, we begin a new chapter—one that feels different in a deeply personal way. Until now, I had already read every letter. But from here forward, I’m reading them for the very first time. In this episode, my dad, Dick, writes to my mom, Sarah, from Vietnam. He shares what it feels like to be apart during her pregnancy—the sadness, the guilt, and the love that still burns bright i...

Send us a text In this May 31, 1971 letter, my mom Sarah takes us on an emotional ride: from laughter and sarcasm to loneliness and back again. She starts the letter lightheartedly—listing all the things she and Joy somehow convinced someone to buy during a furniture shopping spree. But then the deeper truth emerges: she’s been struggling. She’s tried calling my dad in Vietnam nearly every night. The lines are always busy. And it’s been wearing on her. She writes, “I feel like I spent more ...

Send us a text In this May 31, 1971 letter, my father Dick writes to my mother Sarah from Vietnam. He’s on alert but has a quiet day—one of those rare moments in a war zone where nothing happens, and the waiting becomes the hardest part. But he fills that space with devotion. He buys cassette tapes and begins preparing to record messages she can play back when the letters aren’t enough. He jokes about sun tanning and bikini lines, but the tone of the letter quickly shifts into something dee...

Send us a text It’s May 28, 1971, and my mother Sarah is “seepy,” early in her pregnancy, and missing my father with every fiber of her being. In this letter, she shares the small details of her day: breakfast with Joy, a quiet trip to the BX, and the joy of finding a surprise she plans to send him. She writes about the baby they’re already imagining—guessing it might be a boy, but saying all that matters is that “it’s healthy.” She’s barely smoking, too tired for the club, and already drea...

Send us a text After 47 letters exchanged between April 27 and May 30, 1971, this recap looks back on the first month of separation between Captains Dick and Sarah Allgood—newlyweds, both serving in the U.S. Air Force, and already holding onto something much bigger than distance. In this special episode, their daughter reflects on the powerful truths uncovered in these early letters: that she was wanted and chosen after a heartbreaking miscarriage, that her parents were actively trying to c...

Send us a text In this May 30, 1971 letter from Bien Hoa Air Base, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his pregnant wife Sarah, who’s serving as an Air Force nurse at Wilford Hall in San Antonio. He opens with flirtation, calling her “the best I ever had,” and confesses to reading a “sort of a sex book,” followed by a quarter to their private pot. But the real heart of the letter is his growing awe at the love expanding inside him—“I have another ‘being’ to be able to love along with you.” He’...

Send us a text This isn’t your typical Vietnam War letter. On May 29, 1971, my father—Captain Dick Allgood—wrote to my mother from Bien Hoa Air Base. She was thousands of miles away, working long hours as a military nurse at Wilford Hall in San Antonio and newly pregnant with me. And he was scared. Scared for her health, for the baby, for the pace she was keeping while he could do nothing but write from across the world. In this letter, his love takes the shape of fierce protectiveness: “Yo...