Episodes

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 that he bought a simple model “so I can’t fuck it up.” But beneath the humor and hi-fi plans is something deeper: unshakable love and pride. He calls Sarah his “wittle chick-a-dee” and ends the let...

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 concern as she asks him — again — to please take care of himself. Because the only thing worse than waiting would be if he got sick and couldn’t come. Support the show The Allgoods: Vietnam Throu...

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 flying missions but emotionally steady and unwavering in his devotion. He reacts to Sarah’s updates about a failing marriage between mutual friends, Mike and Nancy, and makes it clear: that will ne...

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 “getting drunk on Grasshoppers” — a sweet, minty cocktail that, years later, would become one of Sarah’s favorite drinks. As usual, Dick ends the day with a “wittle love note,” making sure Sarah ...

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 picture on her pillow at night. In this letter, she asks what he wants for their anniversary and promises to pick out something “groovy” in Miami — maybe even a bikini. Her tone is flirtatious, f...

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 fidelity. What starts as a logistics update turns into one of the most vulnerable, explicit declarations of loyalty, desire, and devotion we’ve seen. It’s Dick at his most open — promising Sarah that no ma...

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 juice, and trying to pass the time — first at Jack in the Box, then watching TV with Joy, and later convincing her friends to split a banana split (even though, as she jokes, they only have one mouth...

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 Kona Village, maybe Waikiki — weighing the options like a man who knows his wife loves her room service. But ultimately, he doesn’t care where they go. What he wants is simple: a big bed, some pr...

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 leaves her out of breath (yes, that kind of dream), shares a wild update from Tommy Anderson, and drops one of the most absurd gossip stories so far—including a clause that literally gives a woman own...

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 chewed up his last recording. Not yet knowing she got it working again, he promises to make her a new one and send it soon. He tells her how much he loves the idea of her trying to cook for him — eve...

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 cry days,” she writes. “Some days I actually hurt from loneliness and desire to be with you.” She tries to be strong. But this isn’t an Air Force officer kind of day — it’s a wittle girl weekend, f...

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 future joy. He tells her he’s tired, not feeling great, but what pulls him through — always — is writing to her. It’s the first of two letters he wrote that day. He talks about their upcoming R&R...

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 everything he can to stay close, even from across the world. He writes about work being a necessary evil, promises they’ll be OK, and closes the letter with deep reassurance: they are one — always have ...

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, but she doesn’t dwell on it. The real heart of this letter is in the little things: finally getting his Special Delivery letter, wishing the mail had moved faster, and counting down the 54 days ...

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 says everything about who he was. He reminds my mom that even though they’re far apart — even though the war has kept them from building a home together — their love is the life. Not a paycheck. ...

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 involving two men and a fall from a balcony. Phone calls between Vietnam and home were rare — expensive, hard to connect, and limited to just five minutes. But Sarah, ever thoughtful, tells Dick they co...

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-distance calls were expensive back then, and this was how people stayed close. She tells my dad that she hates cooking — especially breakfast — and that he spoiled her by always doing it himself. ...

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 himself, Dick thought only of Sarah. In these short but sweet notes, we see a man who was thoughtful, intentional, and madly in love. He didn’t just send snapshots—he sent joy, affection, and a pi...

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 sworn he was right there in bed talking to her. And then she laughs at her own voice on the tape she recorded back — calls it horrible, but says it’s sent in love. She’d just fixed the recorder that w...

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 color photos from a recent helicopter flight in Vietnam, including a few candid shots of himself that he didn’t know were being taken. It’s a gesture of love, meant to make the distance feel a lit...

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 phone call — it’s a letter about everything he felt but couldn’t fit into those five minutes. He tells her, “You are my wittle chickadee.” He says he has a “great big pile of love” for her — so muc...

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 easily. But if she can’t have that, a phone call will do just fine. She pours a glass of their favorite apple juice, tries to settle into a quiet day of old movies and sweet memories, and even make...

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 her. He was always financially minded, even back then. Practical, methodical, and constantly thinking ahead — he handled money with care because he saw it as a way to protect his family. And he di...

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 he opened the Allgood Bar & Grill, waffles were always on the menu. It wasn’t just about food — it was how he loved people. This letter is filled with all the usual things: friendship, films,...