Datelined April 30, 1980, the letter was intended to console me for not getting into my college of first choice. It is a remarkable document. In two single-spaced pages, my grandfather offered up a meditation on Ecclesiastes -- "time and chance happeneth to them all" -- a review of his own career, and a closing coda name-checking McGeorge Bundy, a contemporary of my grandfather's who had succeeded wildly at every level before becoming (justly) saddled with a significant part of the blame for the Vietnam War. Hey, your life could be worse, he was saying, you could be McGeorge Bundy!

I can't remember whether the letter succeeded in consoling me. I'm guessing probably not, and in fact, I'm pretty sure  I never looked at it again. My bad. But while I'm always glad to be reminded of my grandfather, I found that holding that letter in my hands provoked a powerful sense of guilt.

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