On April 12, 2025, we received a story through our submission form from Margaret L., 82 years old, living quietly now in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Her message was short, but it carried with it the weight of six decades. What began as a simple memory unfolded into a story of loss, admiration, and the quiet power one dancer had on a young man who never came home.
Margaret agreed to let us share her words. What follows is her story.
The Picture He Kept Folded in His Wallet
“My brother’s name was Robert. We called him Bobby. He was eighteen when he enlisted in the Army in 1961. I was just fourteen, and we were as close as siblings could be. Before he left for Vietnam, he gave me his stack of record albums, his baseball cards, and his notebook of sketches. But he kept one thing for himself — a folded magazine clipping of you, Justine Carrelli.”
“He had cut it out from a teen magazine. You were wearing a light-colored dress, dancing with Bob Clayton, smiling that calm, graceful smile. I remember teasing him about it. ‘You have a crush on her, don’t you?’ And he didn’t even deny it. He said, ‘She’s just… nice to look at.’”
Quiet Admiration from a Distance
“Bobby wasn’t the type to write fan mail or chase fads. But he never missed Bandstand. He watched you the way people watch the ocean — quiet, still, and completely drawn in. I think he saw something in you that he needed to believe in.”
“You always seemed so composed. So kind. You didn’t demand the spotlight, but it came to you anyway. My brother used to say you danced like you were listening to something softer than the rest of us could hear.”
“When he left, he tucked your photo into his wallet. He didn’t say much about it. But I knew.”
Letters from Far Away
“He wrote us letters. Mostly short. Mostly about the heat. The food. The guys. But in one, he wrote something that stays with me to this day. He said, ‘Tell Maggie I still have the picture. She still looks calm even over here.’”
“It broke my heart, that line. Because I knew what he meant. That photo — your photo — was his calm. His piece of home.”
“I still have that letter. The ink is fading, but I’ve kept it tucked inside a book on our living room shelf. Sometimes I take it out and read it aloud. I imagine him sitting in the mud, listening to faraway gunfire, holding that photo and finding something steady in your smile.”
He Didn’t Come Back
“Bobby died in 1963. He was 20. We got the telegram on a Friday. It was raining. I still remember the sound of my mother’s knees hitting the floor.”
“They sent back his things. The wallet was among them. The picture was still there, a little worn, edges soft from being touched. You were smiling in that photo, Justine. And somehow, even then, you looked calm.”
A Note from a Sister
“I’m 82 now. I don’t write many letters anymore. But when I found your blog, and saw that people still remember Bandstand — still remember you — I knew I had to write.”
“You never knew my brother. But you gave him something gentle in a world that was anything but. For that, I thank you.”
“And wherever he is now, I like to think he’s still carrying that photo.”
Did someone on Bandstand become part of your story too?
A memory held in silence, a photo in a drawer, a smile that stayed with you all these years?
We’d be honored to hear your story.
You can send your memory to us directly via email at [email protected], or let us help you write or edit it into a post like this — and we’ll gladly change your name if you wish.
📝 Share your story with us here: