A small granite slab embedded in the earth, half a block from the Old West Lawrence house where I used to live, informs the passerby that “Here Griswold, Baker, Thorp and Trask were shot August 21, 1863.”

The reference is to Quantrill’s bloody raid on Lawrence, perhaps the town’s main claim to historical fame. It’s not history with a capital H :quot; triumphal arches and imperial tombs. But Lawrence and Kansas are relative newcomers to the world stage and we must take our history as it comes.

In fact, Kansans seem to have more than the normal thirst for history. I know of some who will part the grass and bow before traces of a Santa Fe Trail covered wagon rut. A local historian claims to be able to hear the creaking of the wagons and see the ladies in long dresses at the site of the Battle of Black Jack.

A couple of pilgrims recently journeyed from England to Lawrence to inspect the possible home site of a man who might be their ancestor, abolitionist Dr. John Doy. Nothing remains but stone rubble and a foundation pit, but the couple wants the site “saved for posterity.” Where are you, Ozymandias?

The other day I went on a tour of historic Vinland, a town you’d miss in an eye blink. There’s a church, a grange, a quaint one-room library, not much more. And yet more than 50 devotees of the past turned out for that tour.

Actually, commonplace and diminutive tokens possess a strange, paradoxical power missing from epic grandeur. There’s a nobility in the keepsakes of anonymous strugglers. We worship celebrities, but we identify with non-entities.

Our remains aren’t destined to be enshrined as tourist attractions. So it’s natural for us to be moved by obscure mementos :quot; flowers still blooming before the threshold of a homestead’s ruins, an overgrown mound that was once a root cellar, the thin cry of wind in the wreck of a windmill.

Fame is “the last infirmity of noble minds,” wrote Milton. And George Santayana warned us about the danger of forgetting the past. But Jorge Borges’ take on posterity has its own appeal: “Is there are greater blessing than to be the ashes of which oblivion is made?”

I once came upon some archives that listed generation upon generation of Missourians, among them hundreds of long-forgotten Gurleys, without so much as a footnote to tell who they were or what they did. I took comfort in that list. If no one remembers our honors and achievements, no one will remember our weaknesses and defeats.

I have yet to be visited by the genealogy bug, which bites so many as they get on in years. But I recently came into possession of some musty letters written to my grandfather, Henri Mazyck Clarkson Low, by his boss, a Mr. Velie, that have charmed me more than I would have guessed.

The letters chronicle my grandfather’s migration to Kansas City from Virginia in the early years of the last century and the beginning of his career as a traveling salesman for John Deere.

Velie makes a bold pitch to Zeke: “Consider the West in the interest of your own welfare.” He promises “a good right to a fair share of success” to men such as him, of “large interests” and industry. He offers a starting salary of $40 per month. Some on-the-job training, assembling and boxing harnesses with “men of inferior intellect,” will be required by way of education.

In an attempt to intoxicate my grandfather with visions of the country club life, the cavalier Velie mentions a polo game in which “We expect to get scalped or ‘tomahawked,’ but will let them know they are in a Polo game.”

Horse talk is the outstanding feature of the correspondence. “I have had the big horse, which I’m thinking of calling ‘Mazyck,’ clipped and shod and generally polished up and he certainly looks fine,” writes Velie. “Paddy McGill says he jumps better than did ‘Thistledown:I am schooling him for a stiff jump in a paddock without a rider, daily, and giving him a small exercise gallop on dirt roads in order to get his bellows opened for hard work:His legs are simply perfect, not even a wind puff is to be found, and the clipping has brought out the fineness of bone and the cleanness of his cords and tendons.”

The letters evoke a time, not that long ago, when horses were still more important than cars. Velie mentions one “cracking good individual,” for sale at $350, almost a year’s wages at my grandfather’s starting salary, probably the equivalent of a Porsche or a Hum-Vee today.

Velie seeks my grandfather’s assistance in finding an “old-fashioned one horse shay,” which he wishes to restore to its “pristine beauty,” revealing an appreciation for what was passing away in his own day. He gives my grandfather a bonus, extends his line to include scales and spreaders as well as plows, wagons and drills and thanks him for “past courtesies.”

“Your work in promoting cream separators has been of a pioneer character,” he writes.

I find the archaic quality of these letters oddly attractive. It speaks of a time before the automobile was king, a simpler time when people still wrote letters in long hand, before cell phones and e-mail took possession of our lives. And there’s a quaint, almost courtly tone which evokes a time forever gone.

Doubtless there were as many scoundrels :quot; horse thieves and horse traders :quot; as there are in our more sophisticated world. But the language they spoke was not as crude as the one in vogue today.

An issue arises in Velie’s use of “tomahawk” and “scalping,” as well as his reference to “men of inferior intellect.” Should he be dragged to the bar along with Thomas Jefferson and other historical figures who’ve turned out to be less than saints?

Of course not. Velie may have been insensitive and even a raging bigot, but he was a nobody as well as a creature of his time. It’s better that we know the truth about the past than to whitewash it. And let’s not be to hasty to judge him simply because our own prejudices are better disguised.

When Velie writes “I shall hitch the gray boy to my red tandem cart with kicking straps,” I feel a subtle tug, a summons to adventure and freedom. That’s what journeys into the past are all about. The idea that the world was once a better or a safer place is probably an illusion. All the same, I’d give a nickel for it to be, for just one afternoon, a 100 years ago today.

– George Gurley, a resident of rural Baldwin, writes a regular column for the Journal-World.