The Old Man Loved the Tribe

 

Lanterman Falls
Mill Creek Park; Youngstown, OH

My great-grandfather Lanterman loved the Cleveland Indians. He had lived on his farm for about 90 years, his farm on Four Mile Run Road in Austintown, Ohio, near Youngstown.

Every night and/or day he would sit at his kitchen table and listen to the radio broadcasts, sipping his coffee—or maybe a touch of his favorite, Old Overholt rye whiskey.

He was related to the Lantermans who operated Lanterman’s Mill down in Mill Creek Park. Years later when the mill was up and running again, I went there, bought some flour, and stirred some into my sourdough starter. So traces of it are still there, I would guess.

We visited his farm a couple of times when I was a kid (his wife had died before I was born). Once I saw him behead a chicken for supper—and it freaked me out, running around without a head! I was actually terrified, but nonetheless ate some for supper.

His son, my great-uncle Bill, a WW I veteran, died in 1951, and his was the first funeral I attended. I was about 7. We sat up close, and I was certain that I saw him breathing in his open casket.

I whirled to my mother, “He’s breathing!” I whispered to her.

“No, he’s not,” she whispered back.

“But Mom ...”

“Shshhhh,” she replied. And so I did.

Later, it got to the point when he couldn’t live on his farm, so, for the nonce, he moved in with us in Hiram, Ohio. Took my room. I was less than happy about that.

Dad would occasionally drop him off at the horse races near Cleveland—he always managed to make a few bucks.

But soon he became too much for us to handle, and he moved to Enid, Oklahoma, to be with his daughter (my grandmother). Soon he was bed-bound and annoyed—and not just about his physical deterioration. He couldn’t get the Tribe games on his radio and had to settle for the Texas League.

And my grandfather Osborn, now and then, had to drive 50 miles north to Kansas to buy his Old Overholt—Oklahoma was “dry” in those years.

He died in 1963, my freshman year in college; he was 96 years old. He always used to say when he got to be 100, he was going to start heading back the other way and find “a rich widow in poor health.”

They shipped his body back to Ohio, and he was buried in Four Mile Run Cemetery, close to his farm. His wife and son are there, too.

Our family attended the service at the funeral home. All I remember is that the man who ran the service recited Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar”—a poem I memorized a few years ago in his honor.*

We went back to see the old farm several times. Then, one day, we saw it had been cut up into a duplex. On a later trip it was gone altogether—and a brick apartment building stood not far from the site where I saw a headless chicken running around. No sign that it had ever been a farm.

So many years ago ... yet I remember clearly his love of the Tribe, his loyalty. It was a bond we would share ...

My great-grandfather Lanterman is on the far left.
Dodge Court; Hiram, Ohio, 1957.
Brother Dave is keeping a grip on the collar
of our dog, Sooner.

* Crossing the Bar 

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Sunset and evening star,

      And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

      When I put out to sea,

   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

      Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

      Turns again home.

   Twilight and evening bell,

      And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

      When I embark;

   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

      The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

      When I have crost the bar.