Episodes

Send us a text In this letter from July 9, 1971, Sarah leans into the lifelines that are getting her through: her deep love for Dick, the baby growing inside her, and the women around her who keep showing up. From cherry cheesecake and grocery runs to tearful toasts and going-away parties, her community in San Antonio becomes a stand-in for the partner she misses so badly. Jan, Pam, and others help her prepare for a farewell dinner—one filled with emotion, laughter, and quiet strength. Even...

Send us a text In this letter from July 9, 1971, Dick writes from Vietnam with tenderness, apology, and longing. He’s on alert again, soaking up sun on the roof, trying to pass the time—but what’s really on his mind is Sarah. He congratulates her on her promotion (belatedly, with an honest apology), and dreams of their reunion—both emotional and physical. He tells her he can’t define the word love, but knows that what he feels for her is real and unshakeable. He misses her with an ache that...

Send us a text On July 8, 1971, my mom was just starting to imagine a new kind of life. She had left the Air Force behind and was writing from San Antonio, pregnant with me and dreaming about where she and my dad might end up. In this letter, she asks her friend Judy to send the want ads from the Miami Herald — and you can feel how real that hope was. What’s incredible is: they made it. They eventually did move to Miami, and that’s where I was raised — until Hurricane Andrew turned our worl...

Send us a text On July 8, 1971, my dad was on alert again — another day of waiting, paperwork, and passing time. But in the middle of it, he sat down to write to my mom. This letter is tender, grounded, and a little raw, filled with his signature blend of blunt honesty and deep love. He tells her she’s his life — his wife, his lover, and the mama of their babies. He imagines what she must look like pregnant, tells her he’ll be the most loving husband in the world, and reminds her again and ...

Send us a text My dad could always sniff out a good deal—and he was pretty proud of the pair of giant speakers he picked up at the BX in Vietnam for a steal. He didn’t have anything to play through them yet, but that didn’t stop him from planning for the life they’d build together. But the real heart of this letter is the dream he shares: watching my mom brush her hair in front of the mirror while he sat on their bed. It’s soft, vivid, and full of love. My dad could come off as tough or g...

Send us a text In this letter from July 7, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his wife, Sarah, from Vietnam, just after receiving three of her letters — one written on Thursday and two on Friday, the day of her farewell party. He talks through plans for their upcoming R&R in Hawaii, sharing flight arrival times and working out how she’ll get her ticket while visiting Miami. Even from halfway across the world, he’s doing his best to make sure she continues to receive his letters, no ma...

Send us a text On July 7, 1971, my mom was officially discharged from the Air Force. At 30 years old, pregnant with me, she became a dependent wife — no longer an officer, no longer in uniform, and no longer working long hospital shifts. In this letter, you can hear her exhale. She writes about discharge pay, a sandwich and Nehi grape soda, and how much better she feels knowing she’s finally home for good. She also made a deal with the mailman — Joe — who agreed to take her letters each mor...

Send us a text It’s Sarah’s last full day of work in the Air Force, and everyone shows up to send her off. From enlisted techs to commissioned officers, they take her to the NCO Club, buy her beer, and give her a card that makes her cry. She drinks more than usual — martinis, pink ladies, Kahlúa — and writes to Dick while still a little buzzed. She’s tired, emotional, and deeply grateful. This is the only letter from July 6. Dick doesn’t write again for a few days — likely because he sent a...

Send us a text n today’s letter from July 5, 1971, my dad writes from Vietnam after a full day on alert—“no real action or excitement,” he says. But I can’t help wondering if that’s the truth, or just the version he was allowed—or willing—to share. Like so many servicemen during the war, he may have been trained not to say too much. But what he does write is full of emotion: he misses her, he misses the baby she’s carrying, and he longs for the day he can finally touch her again. He tells...

Send us a text It’s July 5, 1971, and my mom—Captain Sarah Allgood—is writing from San Antonio in the middle of a hot summer day. My dad, Captain Dick Allgood, was stationed at a real wartime airbase in Da Nang, Vietnam. He’d just sent her a steamy Special Delivery letter, and she’s responding the only way she knows how: with longing, humor, and another quarter in the kitty. She writes about the ordinary things—boiled eggs, soap operas, pizza with neighbors, sunbathing in her “wittle pregna...

Send us a text On July 4, 1971, Captain Sarah Allgood wrote two letters to her husband, Captain Dick Allgood. She was pregnant, stationed in San Antonio, and just days away from separating from the Air Force. It was a holiday they normally spent together — with ribs, potato salad, and each other. But this year, they were apart. In her morning letter, she’s seepy, playful, and full of longing. By midday, she’s trying to make the most of the day but can’t shake the weight of missing him. She ...

Send us a text On July 4, 1971, my dad, Captain Dick Allgood, writes from Vietnam with his heart on full display. His letter isn’t about fireworks or freedom — it’s about the kind of love that endures across oceans, months, and war. He tells my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, how much he misses her, aches for her, and still remembers the exact week they fell deeply in love. Even in the middle of a war zone, he affirms his loyalty, defends the sacredness of their love, and promises to never touc...

Send us a text This letter from my dad, written on July 3, 1971, is full of tenderness, memory, and quiet ache. He’s writing from Vietnam — still on alert, still in danger — but what he talks about is baking brownies, missing my mom, and planning where to send her letters when she travels to Miami. He turned down a regular commission with the Air Force — a stable, lifelong career — because he never wanted to be separated from her again. That’s the kind of love they had. In this letter, he...

Send us a text It’s been 68 days since my dad left for Vietnam. And in that time, my parents have been writing constantly — sometimes more than once a day. These letters were their lifeline, their only way to stay connected across distance, danger, and everything they were missing in between. In this one, my mom writes about sewing a maternity swimsuit to fit her “wittle pregnant belly,” skipping dinner plans because of the Texas heat, and just wanting to stay in. It’s full of the kind of d...

Send us a text On July 2, 1971, my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, wrote two letters to my dad — both on the same day, but in completely different moods. The first one came after her three-month pregnancy checkup. She writes with excitement and relief — she’s healthy, the baby is growing, and her doctor is supportive of traveling to Miami for R&R. She shares flight plans, military red tape, and sweet memories of past Fourth of Julys with my dad. The second letter came late that night — af...

Send us a text My dad wrote this letter from Vietnam after helping one of his closest friends board a flight home. He says he was happy for him — but admits he was filled with envy. That could’ve been him. That should’ve been him. In this letter, he talks about catching a little sun, eating a decent steak at the club, and winding down with the guys who worked under him. But nothing — not beer, not books, not even a break from the rain — could distract him from the one thing he truly wanted:...

Send us a text This letter from my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, is pure gold. It’s July 1, 1971, and she’s funny, flirty, and a little bit filthy — all while pregnant, lonely, and trying to get through another day without my dad. She’s dreaming of a life where she can “sit back, rest, and become beautifully pregnant” — and she’s already putting quarters in the bank for their baby (me). She writes about a broccoli-cheese chicken casserole, jokes about a strapped-on teddy bear, and vents about...

Send us a text In this letter from July 1, 1971, my dad writes to my mom after receiving three letters and a card from her — and his mood lifts right off the page. He’s playful, sweet, and a little jealous as another friend prepares to head home from Vietnam. He jokes about never getting a tan, thanks to the monsoon rains, but says he still made time to “groove to his wife on the roof.” He tells her how proud he is that she’s finished working, and that he’s ready to keep her “busy” as his w...

Send us a text In this episode, I’m taking a moment to reflect on everything I’ve uncovered so far — from the day my dad deployed to Vietnam in late April 1971 through the end of June. My mom was still on active duty in San Antonio when she found out she was pregnant with me. My dad had just arrived in Vietnam, flying rescue helicopters with the 38th Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron. They were separated by a war, time zones, and a communication system that barely worked — and still, t...