Episodes
July 28, 1971: Spare Ribs and a Crashed Mail Plane
Send us a text Dick’s letter today includes a few missed letters, a cigarette relapse, and a familiar craving for ribs. A Pan Am cargo jet went down, possibly taking one of Sarah’s letters with it — and in the same breath, Dick mentions prepping for a Saturday night cookout. If you knew him later i…
July 28, 1971: In the Air to Miami
Send us a text Sarah wrote this letter on the plane to Miami — a trip she’d been planning for weeks to visit her friend Judy. She picked up Nancy and Gordon that morning, they dropped her off at the airport, and then drove her car back to her apartment. Even mid-flight, she made time to write to Di…
July 28, 1971: “Love Is a Memory Time Cannot End”
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 i…
July 27, 1971: My Little Richard Watched Over Me All Night
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…
July 27, 1971: Keeping Track of You
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 w…
“Little Richard & the Hamburger Steak” — July 26, 1971
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 …
July 26, 1971: Together in Soul for Always
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 de…
25 July 1971: Just One More Weekend to Mark Off
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, …
“Big Girls Do It a Whittle More Often” — July 25, 1971
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 w…
“Only 45 Days: A Letter, a Call, and a Mother-in-Law
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…
July 24, 1971: Boy, Did I Get in Deep
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 renew…
“Red, White & Sherbet: July 23, 1971”
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 …
July 23, 1971: Wet Dreams, Welfare, and Those Damn Nancys
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 s…
July 23, 1971: Dreamed of You Twice
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…
Cheater, Cheater, Kebab Eater — July 22, 1971
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…
July 22, 1971: A Stereo Confession, a Miami Hello, and One Loyal Husb…
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 thi…
July 21, 1971: A Short Love Note to Miami
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, affectio…
July 21, 1971: Stereo Dreams, Tape Deck Love, and One Proud Husband
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…
July 20, 1971: A Bikini, a Quarter, and 49 Days to Go
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 …
July 20, 1971: I Groove So Good to You
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 f…
July 19, 1971: Grasshoppers and Other Sweet Things
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 “…
July 19, 1971: One Outfit, One Lover, One Life
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…
July 18, 1971: A Virgin for You, Forever
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 fidelit…
July 18, 1971: Burgers, Banana Splits, and Getting Through Another Su…
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 jui…