The Bricks Beneath My Feet

I smiled when I read a post about Thomasville, Georgia.

To many people, it’s known as the City of Roses. A charming Southern town with brick streets, historic homes, and the Big Oak standing watch over generations.

But for me…

Thomasville isn’t just a place on a map.

It’s part of my family’s story.

My great-grandmother grew up there in the late 1800s. She used to tell us about watching men lay the very bricks that still line the streets today. She remembered seeing one of the first automobiles—a steam buggy—roll through town, an event so remarkable that people came outside just to watch it pass.

She would visit her Aunt Caroline, who lived in one of the beautiful historic homes on Clay Street. My great-great-aunt was fair-skinned enough to pass as white, so people never questioned her presence there. It was a complicated time in the South, where even the color of your skin could determine how freely you moved through the world.

My great-great-grandparents are buried there.

When I think about Thomasville, I don’t just see brick streets.

I see footprints.

I see generations.

I hear stories that no history book could ever fully tell.

Those bricks don’t just hold a town together.

They hold memories.

They remind me that history isn’t only found in museums. Sometimes it’s carried in the voice of a grandmother who simply says, “I remember when they laid those bricks.”

And I realize something…

We are all walking on someone else’s legacy.

The roads we travel, the freedoms we enjoy, and the stories we inherit were built by people who came before us.

May we never become so busy building our own lives that we forget to honor the foundations they left beneath our feet.

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