Season 3
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…
July 17, 1971: Big Beds, R&R Dreams, and the Wittle Chickadee Who Kee…
Send us a text In this sweet and steady letter from July 17, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his pregnant wife, Sarah, from Vietnam — completely certain of the life they’ve built together. “You and me,” he writes, “we have found what they look for.” He’s thinking ahead to their R&R — maybe…
July 17, 1971: Newlyweds by the Pool, French Dreams, and a Gossip Con…
Send us a text This letter from my mom, Sarah Allgood, was written on a Saturday in July 1971. She’s pregnant, missing my dad, and doing her best to make it through another weekend alone in San Antonio—while newlyweds lounge by the pool just outside her window. She tells him about a dream that leav…
July 16, 1971 – Sleepy Warm and Counting the Days
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 che…
July 16, 1971 – “Wittle Girl Weekend” and a Bell System Strike
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 c…
July 15, 1971: Writing Through the Distance, Loving Through the Fog
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 fut…
July 15, 1971: Six I Love You’s and a Future in Miami
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 everyt…
Untitled Episode July 15, 1971: The Club Card, the Gossip, and the Co…
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…
July 13, 1971: The Best Kind of Love
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 say…
July 14, 1971: A Full Day, a Quiet Fear, and a Balcony Fall
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 involv…
July 13, 1971: Breakfast, Bikinis, and Eight Pages of Love
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-di…
July 12, 1971 – Five Letters for One Love
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 …
July 12, 1971: The Luckiest Girl Alive
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 swor…
July 12, 1971: Stereo, Snapshots, and So Much Love
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 …
July 11, 1971: A Great Big Pile of Love
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 p…
July 11, 1971: Apple Juice, Hip Huggers & Showing Up
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 e…
July 10, 1971: Letters, Lust, and Logistics
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 …
July 10, 1971: No One Makes Waffles Like You Do
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 h…