From the Bandstand Memories Collection — A Fan Letter Reconstructed from a Family’s Story
Dear American Bandstand Friends,
My name is Linda B., and I’m writing from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I’m 73 now, retired and mostly spend my time gardening, reading, and thinking back to the days that formed me. I wasn’t one of the lucky kids who got to dance on TV, but I was one of the ones who watched. And more importantly, I watched beside my sister.
Her name was Martha. She was two years older than me and was, in my eyes, the most beautiful girl in the world. Even when she lost her hair.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Our Living Room Stage
We grew up in a small, two-bedroom house with a green linoleum kitchen and a TV set in a heavy wooden cabinet. Every weekday afternoon at 4 o’clock sharp, we plopped down on the braided rug in front of the screen.
Bandstand came on.
And we were somewhere else.
Martha adored Justine Carrelli. “She has the prettiest clothes,” she’d say. “But it’s the way she carries herself, you know? Like she doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.”
Martha would try to copy Justine’s look. She’d curl her hair like her, even though it never quite stayed. She’d sway along with the music, humming softly, always graceful. She called our living room rug “the dance floor” and made me dance with her when Bob or Kenny came on screen.
I was too shy. She never minded.
The Diagnosis
In the summer of 1960, things changed. Martha had been unusually tired. She got bruises more easily. Then one day, she fainted walking home from church. The doctors found what they feared: leukemia.
She was 15.
For a time, the living room felt quiet. But when Bandstand played, Martha still made it her moment. Even when she was pale. Even when the scarf covered her hair. She still watched. She still smiled.
And when Justine Carrelli came on screen, I saw something light up in my sister that nothing else could bring.
“She still looks like she’s having fun,” Martha whispered once. “I want to look like that, too.”
Letters Never Sent
Martha wanted to write to Justine. She started a letter several times but could never finish. “She probably gets a thousand letters a day,” she’d say, then fold up the paper and put it away.
But I remember what she wanted to say.
She wanted to tell Justine that she made sick days feel normal. That seeing her laugh, dance, and just be herself gave Martha strength. That style wasn’t about fashion—it was about presence.
She wanted to thank her. But she never got the chance.
Martha passed away in the early fall of 1961. She was sixteen.
Why I’m Writing Now
All these years later, when I saw a photo of Justine posted online by your team, I felt the breath catch in my throat. She looked just like I remembered. Graceful. Strong. Still glowing.
And in that moment, I didn’t just see Justine.
I saw my sister. Sitting on the floor. Laughing. Swaying. Twirling around to “At the Hop” in her fuzzy pink socks.
I saw her happy.
A Thank You, 63 Years Late
So I’m writing now, Justine. I’m writing for Martha.
Thank you for being on our screen every afternoon.
Thank you for showing a girl who was fighting so hard just to be normal that she could still feel beautiful. That she could still smile. That she could still dance, even if it was only in her mind.
Thank you for giving her something to hold onto.
And thank you, Bandstand, for giving us that space—that dance floor of hope.
With warmth and memory,
Linda B.
Lancaster, Pennsylvania
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