A friend sent me a cell phone picture of my name in bold print: GEORGE H. GURLEY. He’d seen it stamped on the basement wall of a house in Kansas City where an estate sale was in session. It happened to be the home where I grew up. I’d printed it on that wall when I was about 7 years old, using a stamp which the printers in my father’s trade newspaper business had made for me.

Possession of that implement gave me a sense of enormous importance and power. It was my personal “Killroy Was Here.” I’m afraid I defaced many a wall with that stamp. The photo my friend sent me was a token of the fierce ego, the indomitable “I” that even a child possesses and the illusion everyone has of being the center of the universe. My prodigal use of that stamp also suggests an early intimation of mortality and the desire to leave a reminder of myself behind. Indeed, it seemed like a small miracle that the imprint was still there after more than 60 years.

In Florence recently, I encountered mobs of tourists in the famous piazzas and museums. Had they been drawn there to expose themselves to immortal works of art? Apparently not. Most of them were absorbed in taking pictures of themselves: Here I am in front of the Duomo; here I am in front of Michelangelo’s “David.” The immigrants who used to sell sunglasses on the Ponte Vecchio were now peddling “Selfie sticks.” It’s strange to imagine all the billions of “selfies” vying for attention in the “Cloud.”

The cemetery of San Miniato offered another view of the quest for immorality. It was a village of sepulchers fashioned by master masons. Some were miniature temples and castles. There was even a diminutive replica of the Kremlin. Inside were altars for the performance of Mass and messages chiseled in marble attesting to the nobility and greatness of the deceased. Who knows what those wonders cost? The craftsmanship that made them has disappeared. They would be irreplaceable today. Alas, many had fallen into ruin. Dead leaves covered the floors.

The cemeteries of the world are filled with forgotten graves. The libraries are filled with unread books. Everywhere, men have carved their names on trees and engraved them on public buildings, monuments, even museum restrooms in the vain hope of cheating oblivion. All is vanity, according to some sage.

My 2-year-old grandson has just learned to speak his name. His mother is a little sad, because she realizes it means he’s already discovered his own identity and is preparing to strike out on his own. The little fellow strides into a room, announces his entrance with a barbaric shriek and struts about as if he were 8 feet tall. He’s learned the power of the word “No,” and the secret of throwing tantrums to get his way. Life hasn’t yet given him any serious cuffs. He thinks he has the world on a string. I imagine him with a stamp like mine, leaving his name wherever he goes: “I am JONAH PERCAK, I was here.”

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