The Oakwood Bill

The former clubhouse at Oakwood Club in Cleveland Heights

The Battle of Hastings, fought in 1066, began the Norman Conquest of England. My father, Vic, taught us that fun fact to help us remember our account number at Oakwood Club in the 1960s and 1970s. Our account number was 1166—100 years after Hastings. He would come to regret teaching us this. It led to our own War of the Roses.

My halcyon summers of youth were spent at the Oakwood Country Club pool, reading, swimming, chitchatting with other members, and—when hunger struck—eating at the adjacent “drink house.” I can still remember the thrill of ordering a cheeseburger or root beer float for myself and, blithely oblivious, signing “1166” to the oblong charge slip when it came time to pay.

My mother also loved signing “1166.” Never one to pursue domestic activities, least of all cooking, Merle was only too thrilled to miss entire weeks of feeding us at home in the summer when we loved the drink house fare as much as we did.

There was only one issue. Around August 1st, when the July Oakwood bill came, my father hit the roof. Those oblong slips were mailed to us once a month as proof of purchase. On several occasions, there were so many slips that the Oakwood billing office had to send them to us in two separate, overstuffed envelopes sealed with Scotch tape and affixed with extra postage.

Nothing equaled the dread of my father receiving the Oakwood bill around August 1.

The day these bills arrived, my parents would have epic arguments. In her defense, my mother had never been taught to cook by her mother, and she, too, grew up at Oakwood Club and came by signing those oblong slips honestly. My father, who liked to remind us that he grew up on supposedly rough Kinsman Road (it wasn’t rough at all), had a Hungarian mother who doted on him and made him goulash and chicken paprikash. They were, in some ways, from two different worlds. “I wish I were as rich as my kids,” he liked to taunt us.

My sister and I would stress out in the driveway while my parents argued over the Oakwood bill. Their voices carried out of the windows.

On weeks when the bill was due to arrive, my mother and I would watch for the mailman and sometimes intercept him down the block before he could deliver the dreaded envelope or envelopes from Oakwood. Sometimes, she would hide the bill for days, waiting for my dad to be receptive.

But none of this was enough to make Mom prepare meals or for us to stop ordering burgers and fries at the drink house.

Today, I look back on Oakwood—the pool, drink house, tennis courts, and oblong slips—with great fondness. As an adult, I can relate to my dad’s stress when receiving bills in the mail.

And sometimes, when the check arrives after a meal, I fantasize about signing “1166” and letting my dad worry about paying.