Episodes

Send us a text In this letter from June 18, 1971, my mom, Sarah, is having a quiet day in San Antonio. She’s pregnant, seepy, and missing my dad in all the little ways — especially his cooking. She tries to recreate one of his signature breakfast sandwiches — bacon, eggs, cheese, lettuce, tomato — but admits it’s just not the same. “Mine get soggy,” she writes. “Yours never did.” That one line hits me. Because years later, after Vietnam and his time in commercial finance, my dad opened Al...

Send us a text In this letter from June 17, 1971, my mom — Sarah Allgood — writes from San Antonio during a whirlwind of paperwork, pregnancy fatigue, and a surprise that didn’t go quite as planned. She’s working full time as a military nurse at Lackland AFB, pregnant with me, and trying to sort out her official separation date, medical records, base briefings, and I.D. card requirements — all while making sure my dad has cookies and love letters sent to Vietnam. She vents about a clueles...

Send us a text This is the second letter my dad, Captain Dick Allgood, wrote on June 17, 1971 — a quiet but incredibly tender note sent from Vietnam to my mom, Sarah, who was back at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, pregnant with me. He opens with a simple apology: he missed the morning mail run, so he’s sending this one regular. But what follows is anything but ordinary. He tells her to always dream of him — “wet or dry” — and thanks her for the audio tape she sent, while gently a...

Send us a text In this letter from June 17, 1971, my dad — Captain Dick Allgood — writes to my mom, Sarah, from Vietnam. She’s at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, pregnant with me. He’s halfway around the world, but he’s still thinking about everything — whether her special delivery letter got mailed, what her coworkers are like, how she’s feeling, and how their friends are doing. He even tells her about a book he picked up that made him think of one of her favorite phrases: “slam-ba...

Send us a text In this deeply personal letter from June 16, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to Sarah from Vietnam on a sweltering, emotionally heavy day. He’s just watched Patton again, he’s feeling the weight of distance, and the loneliness is creeping in — but even in that space, his devotion to Sarah is unwavering. What begins with a playful “How do you like being the wife of me?” quickly turns into something more reflective. He opens up about the mental toll of Vietnam, the dangers of...

Send us a text After a few weeks in Florida, I’m back home in Montana — back to the letters, and back to the long road ahead. This is the June 15, 1971 letter from my mom, Sarah, to my dad, Dick, written during the height of their separation in the Vietnam War. It’s intimate, emotional, funny, raw, and full of the kind of unfiltered honesty that makes these letters so unforgettable. I’ll be honest — I fell behind these past few days. Traveling, spending time with family, and just trying t...

Send us a text In this heartfelt letter from June 15, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his wife, Sarah, from Vietnam on a rare day off. After watching a movie about honesty in relationships, he finds himself feeling homesick and deeply reflective. He shares what it means to miss her — not just physically, but emotionally — and what it feels like to love someone so much that just seeing and talking to them would be enough. At this point in the war, Dick is flying dangerous rescue mission...

Send us a text It’s Father’s Day morning, 2025, and I’m sitting quietly in Miami at my best friend Kelly’s house while the rest of the house sleeps. I’m using this early moment to catch up on one of the two letters my parents wrote on June 14, 1971. I fell behind yesterday—life happens—but I’m back at it today, because this project is my way of honoring them. They never stopped writing to each other. And I don’t want to stop either. My dad, Dick Allgood, was in Vietnam. My mom, Sarah, was i...

Send us a text In this Father’s Day episode, I read a letter my dad, Captain Dick Allgood, wrote to my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, on June 14, 1971, while on alert in Vietnam. The day before, he was dreaming of sunshine. Today, he’s dreaming of her — her body, her scent, her softness — and the baby they had planned together before he deployed. That baby was me. Sarah was still serving in the Air Force then, working as a nurse while newly pregnant and exhausted. In this letter, Dick reflects...

Send us a text Today’s letter comes to you from Miami, recorded after an especially emotional and meaningful morning. At sunrise, we took a boat across Biscayne Bay to Boca Chita Key, near Elliott Key, where I was able to spread my mother’s ashes in the waters and place she so dearly loved. This spot held deep personal significance for her — for years, we participated as a family in the Columbus Day Regatta, a cherished tradition that brought us back to these waters every fall. Today, wit...

Send us a text In today’s letter, Dick writes to Sarah during a long, rainy day on alert in Vietnam. His words are full of longing, tenderness, and a deep sense of connection — reminding her, and all of us, that their love was about far more than physical closeness. From the sweet humor of their private “chick-a-dee” exchanges to his reflections on how they “make love in so many ways” — even through these letters — this is a powerful window into how they held each other close through distan...

Send us a text In today’s letter, Sarah writes a late-night note to Dick after yet another lonely evening out with friends. Her longing for him grows stronger by the day — and tonight, she doesn’t hold back. This intimate letter captures the rawness of their separation: from her growing frustration at empty parties, to a moment of pure physical longing when Dick’s words stir her most private desires. It’s a window into the honest, playful, and deeply sensual connection that bound them acros...

Send us a text In this letter, Dick Allgood gives us a Vietnam story we rarely hear — one built on love, small human moments, and unwavering devotion. On his day off, he borrows a truck and takes a couple of sergeants to Long Binh Army Post — not to escape the war, but to scrounge some food to make life a little better for his crew. That night, after a barbecue and a quick visit to the club, he chooses to leave early — so he can come home and write to Sarah. From his bed in a rain-soaked ...

Send us a text In this June 11, 1971 letter, Sarah writes to her husband, Dick — a rescue pilot flying missions in Vietnam — from San Antonio, where she is navigating life, work, and pregnancy while they are apart. She shares a slice of daily life: taking a much-needed day off, trying to beat the Texas heat by the pool, playing cribbage, and passing time at the club. But beneath the surface, her longing for connection is palpable — missing her husband in every familiar moment. Even after ...

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...