Dear Fellow Tourists

It was a beautiful October day, slightly too warm but no longer hot as blue blazes, when my little family and I approached the mansion known as “Melrose.” As we learned that morning, it isn’t technically a plantation; since the 19th century, owners never planted cotton or any other typical antebellum crops, so it was known simply as an “estate.” These days, it’s owned by the National Park Service and open for tours. 

As we took our places at the “Tour Begins Here” sign, I quickly realized that my family and I were the youngest ones on the tour. Much to my amusement, it reminded me of another house tour my husband Casey and I took on our Natchez honeymoon: we were the youngest ones there as well, tagging along behind a group of senior tourists who’d disembarked from a Mississippi River cruise. (I’m quite sure our newlywed state was about as obvious as a neon sign.) 

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have given it another thought. But as our knowledgeable guide led us into Melrose, I grew uneasy. We’d been in Natchez since the day before, and our baby girl, Molly, was tired and noisy. 

What if the other tourists get mad and act like she’s ruining the tour? I wondered. What am I going to do?

Anxiety began its familiar carving path into my chest. Memories of glaring 70-somethings in a tiny church sanctuary, delivering pointed comments about how they used to leave their babies alone in a back room hemmed in by rickety chairs, rose unbidden. Our fellow tourists glanced our way and smiled, chuckling lightly at Molly’s antics. But by the time our tour guide gave us an overview of Melrose’s original flooring, I had slipped further and further away from our group, trying to shush the baby. 

Casey—wonderful husband that he is—noticed my withdrawal. As Molly began wriggling in my arms, trying to get down and crawl on that painstakingly-preserved flooring, he scooped her out of my arms. 

“Take a break,” he whispered. “I’ll hold her.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t mind keeping her.”

“And I don’t mind taking her. Go listen, and then we’ll switch at the next room.” 

With a relieved smile, I darted back to our group. I love historical homes; deep down, I really didn’t want to miss the tour. The group had moved to a gorgeous parlor with crimson curtains, ornate furniture, and an astonishingly busy carpet. I listened, drank in the details . . . and when the tour guide moved us along, I took Molly and Casey followed the group for his turn in the next room. 

We tag-teamed like that throughout the entire house, and for a while Molly seemed to enjoy the back-and-forth. But by the time we got upstairs, her boredom was showing. A 10-month-old doesn’t care about who inherited this house, or where certain pieces of furniture came from. A 10-month-old is much, much more concerned about when she can crawl, where she can crawl, and why Mama and Daddy keep holding her when she clearly wants to crawl!

Molly’s fretful whines echoed through Melrose’s second story as I left her at one end of the large, open room and followed our group to the 19th-century bathroom. I took her from Casey so he could get a glimpse of a bedroom, cringing at the dull thud when Molly angrily tossed her pacifier on the wood floor. 

They’re going to hate us. We’re ruining their tour. I’m never taking her on another tour, not until she’s older. They’re going to chew us out as soon as we get out of this house. The National Parks Service is going to brand us “disturbers of the peace.”

But as the tour came to an end and we stepped back out into the Indian Summer sunshine, Casey and I received a much different response. 

“I’m so sorry about our daughter,” I blurted, too mortified to not say something. “I should’ve taken her back to the car when she first started fussing.”

The touring couples—all three of them—uttered a collective noise of fierce objection. 

“Never apologize for a crying baby!” one lady declared. “She’s just a little thing—she doesn’t know any better!” 

“Besides,” another man chuckled, “it’s good you’re starting her off early! She’ll be a pro at touring these old houses in no time.” 

“How old is she?”

“She’s darling—look at those bright blue eyes . . .”

Even the long-suffering tour guide smiled. “Would you like a Junior Ranger badge for her?”

Needless to say, Casey and I were both stunned—but as a young mother who’d gotten the impression numerous times in the past that her baby was a nuisance (and that she herself was a bad mother for not keeping her baby quiet), I felt as if my world had finally been turned upright.

Dear Fellow Tourists, 

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this little piece—but if you happen to stumble upon it, I just want you to know that I desperately needed the patience and compassion of older, wiser men and women that day. I needed to know that most of you don’t actually think little babies should be seen and not heard. Most of you love to see and hear the natural babbles, coos, and cries of the future. And to these two weary parents, your kindness healed something in us that had been fearful and uncertain for so long.

So, thank you. It meant more to me and my husband than you will ever know. 

Much love and gratitude,

The Two Young Tourists with Their Blue-Eyed Baby

The featured image is courtesy of Julie Jablonski and is used with her kind permission for Cultivating.

Maribeth Barber Albritton

Maribeth Barber Albritton is a wife, mother, and storyteller. She serves as Director of Media and Communications for Cultivating Oaks Pxress and has contributed to the production of Cultivating Magazine’s print editions. She also served as Executive Assistant at The C.S. Lewis Foundation from 2022-2024.

Maribeth has a deep love for history, literature, and film. These keen interests inspired her debut science-fiction novel, Operation Lionhearted, as well as her blog, “A Writer’s Tale,” where she wrote a number of book and movie reviews from the angle of the Christian imagination. These days, she writes “Letters from Crickhollow,” a Substack for those who want to cultivate beauty, grace, and courage in their busy lives.

Maribeth, her pastor-husband Casey, and their daughter Molly currently live in their home state of southeast Louisiana.

maribethbarber.com