Many thanks to Diane (LaVelle) Hamilton, daughter of Karen and the oldest grandchild of Tip and Ruth Melby, for setting these recollections down. What follows came out of a long conversation about her grandparents, and it carries what no record or document can — the sound of the lathe in the garage, the sparkly cup of milk carried across a gymnasium floor, the deep water off the side of the boat. We are grateful she was willing to go back and find them for us.

*   *   *   *   *

Sitting down with Charlie, I had not expected to go to places in my memories that had long been tucked away as merely “that was life with Mom’s family.” At first I wasn’t certain as to where I would go, what would come out of the conversation, or what memories would be prompted, like the playfulness of a large family, a sound of laughter echoing back to the forefront of my thoughts, the loud arguments that ensued when too many chiefs scuffled for control.

Life with Mom’s family was quite a contrast from my dad’s family. Mom’s family included uncles who carried, tossed, supported and entertained the younger crowd. The aunties were hands-on, always available, always on the floor playing with me, then us. I am the oldest grandchild of Tip and Ruth, and while I have a deeper trove of memories to dig from, there is not one cousin who couldn’t say the same about the family, the participation, the celebration, the fun we had when together.

Grandpa was very imaginative and had an ingenuity for having the grandkids around and for keeping them from getting under his feet as he worked around the yards, the house and in his garage. Oh, I can smell the sawdust and hear the sound of the lathe as he turned wood into candlesticks, vases, and the like.

Grandma was just as creative in keeping a grandchild busy playing. She set her doll house up for me on a card table, and I can recall playing there in the basement laundry room for hours, or learning to make orange cupcakes with orange zest icing. She always had Wrigley’s gum in the cupboard, oyster crackers for tomato soup, and darling little plastic-sparkly cups she would fill with milk for her young charges.

I remember a time when she walked one of those dear little cups across the gymnasium floor filled with milk to add to my lunch. I had gone to school with her early that morning, because Mom was in the hospital having my youngest brother, David. I attended C.S. Porter as a first and second grader; Grandma taught 6th grade there, so it only made sense that she would take me to school. Sitting on the floor with my 2nd grade classmate, back against the wall, and here she comes — I can still remember her walking across the gymnasium floor with great authority and purpose, poised and gracious, carrying that little sparkly cup. She bent over, handed it to me and smiled and turned back to her school duties. I felt quite special and cared for. I understood her role there at the school; she was professional and I respected that, but for a brief moment, as long as it took for her to walk to me, she was my grandma.

Grandpa Tip had his own role in the family’s life. He was big and mighty, he wrestled bears, slept where the cactus nipped at his toes, swam with the crocodiles — all of those adventures were the reasons he lost his hair. He always had a story to tell, a lesson to teach, a sermon to give, an opinion that couldn’t be matched, but a love so fierce and there was no tale in that reality. His hugs were big, hard, and long. He loved his family with a ferocious tenor that at times could be misconstrued as grumpy, unfair, unkind, or that in some way the recipient might feel as though he/she disappointed this great and accomplished man.

He was at times tender and understanding, as in the time I was not making it in college. I had dropped out as I lacked direction. He sat there with me as I felt such a failure, lost, and unsure of what I wanted. He listened well, he validated my feelings, my lack of focus, and then he gently and with such wisdom explained to me that I would need my own ability to support myself just in case something were to happen to my future husband; in order to do that, I would need a college degree. So, once I could, I went back to school with focus and determination, as well as with Grandpa’s voice in the back of my mind reminding me of how important education was.

Grandpa could also be really hard. Once, when I was about seven or eight, my sister and I went on a boating weekend out on Flathead Lake with Grandpa and Grandma. We slept out on the deck, peed in a coffee can, fished off the side of the boat, and swam. On the day we were to go swimming off the boat, I sat out on the deck and looked for just the right spot to jump off. I found the perfect spot, I could see right to the bottom, perfect. Not to the captain of the boat. He took us out into the deep and dark part of the lake where the seaweed could be seen… That was swimming to him. We were either strong or we were weak; we were not to fear, we were to swim and like it!

There was a time I recall when my mom was starting a dancing school in Butte. She had the studio, but it wasn’t set up for dance classes, so Grandma sent Grandpa over with his tools, and he stayed until the studio had mirrors on the walls and appropriate barres installed for my mom’s Ballet Academy. He was there not only as Mom’s dad but for Grandma, as she was worried that the little school of dance wouldn’t have what it needed to be successful. Grandpa always brought Grandma with him; even after her death, he showed up for both of them. When my second baby was born, he was there, and as he leaned over me, big and strong, he reminded me that he was there for Grandma too. He loved his family with action, and showing up when there was a need was his strongest love language.

I remember when we were collectively putting together the memory book for Grandpa’s 80th birthday. I was struck by what I knew of my grandpa and could see it played out in the generation he raised. My mom, aunties and uncles relished each of us youngsters and included us in the play, the fun, the tug-of-wars, the pranks, et al. They learned from the master and carried the tradition on in their own parenting styles and their interactions with my generation of cousins. I am a better parent and grandparent for it.

The memories are precious, and I treasure all that is in my trove of memories of being the oldest and relish the stories my younger cousins and siblings have to share as well. We were loved well, we were always included.

I don’t think any of us were left behind; we were just picked up and carried along in the adventurous flow of the dynamic family.

~ Diane Hamilton   September 2026

Family Reunion in South Dakota

*   *   *   *   *