Column: To my abba (dad) and my zayde (grandpa) for Father’s Day

My folks and I visited Cape Cod for the first time when I was 17. When we strolled down Main Street in Hyannis, Dad, walking behind me, whispered to Mom, “Her skirt is too short; boys will see her pupik (Yiddish for belly button).”

Dad, who was crazy about me, never called me Saralee. Instead, his nicknames (though loving) were of animals. Nicknames for Mom were of various foods.

“Kofela (little monkey), go change your skirt. You want every shaegetz (male who isn’t Jewish) to see your tuchus?” Pronounced: took-us. Translation: tush.

I remember we went into Woolworth’s, which was situated where Puritan’s is today. There were aisles after aisles of tchotchkes. (Can you believe I spelled that right?) It’s pronounced: chotch – keys, and means small, inexpensive trinkets or souvenirs — knickknacks.

In fact, the very best present I’ve ever received was from Woolworth’s. My grandfather had walked down every aisle of Manhattan’s F. W. Woolworth Company and one-by-one handpicked treasures of faux diamond bracelets, ruby necklaces, sapphire pins, and one emerald tiara. He put all the valuables in a robin’s egg blue jewelry box that he bestowed upon me when I was 7.

I can still picture him bending down to present me with the box, which he slowly opened for my eyes to see. It was like being in the movie "The Wizard of Oz" when suddenly everything was, as they put it, in living Technicolor. I still have that jewelry box.

So, after my father assessed the crowds on Main Street that day, he declared, “Cape Cod is all goyim (non-Jewish).”

“You can’t tell that, Dad.”

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“Moyzelah (little mouse), the shysters at the delicatessens make you eat ham and tell you it’s corned beef from Katz’s. Don’t get used to this place. You’ll wind up marrying a blonde-haired, blue-eyed infidel.”

I did.

Remarkably, my dad adored my husband, Bob. But Dad thought that every non-Jewish male was a hired hand who lived in a trailer park. Whenever he introduced Bob, he called him, endearingly: “di mishpucka poyer (the family peasant).”

We then drove to Mildred’s Chowder House, which was then near the airport. Dad said to Mom, “Kugelah (noodle casserole), her neckline’s too low. Every boychik (young man) will see her tamatim (tomatoes).”

“Shtil!” (Quiet!) Mamala commanded him. Diners in surrounding tables stopped talking.

Mom and I ordered lobsters. Shellfish isn’t kosher.

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Dad went meshuggeneh, “Drek!” (Translation: I can’t publish the word. Let’s go with: ick.) “They’re scavengers like your Uncle Gilbert the leech. Their idea of happy hour is eating scales and fins off dead fish. When a swordfish goes to the bathroom, what do you think eats all that?” He pointed to my lobster. “They eat sewage. When anybody flushes a toilet on Cape Cod, it ends up in a lobster.”

You can imagine our next day’s trip to Provincetown. As we walked along the wild and wonderful carnival-like Commercial Street, my father couldn’t stop grabbing my mother’s arm and saying, “Babka (coffee cake) did you see that?”

Every other minute, Dad asked me, “Tzigela (little goat), is that a man?”

We went into a boutique that I think had the word, “Eros,” on its sign. I quickly pulled my folks out of the shop because all they had for sale were erotic products, and of course parents know nothing about any of that.

And so, as Father’s Day approaches, I think of Abba and Zeyde. Their devotion to Judaism was a life raft and a safe harbor in good times and bad.

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I fell in love with Cape Cod during that spring vacation when we were welcomed as tourists while we visited beaches, lighthouses and antique shops.

It turned out that some seven years later, my father was with me when I made my second trip to this peninsula. This time, Dad went back to his home, and I stayed – starting my life anew on Cape Cod — my forever home.

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, lives in Marstons Mills. She can be reached at: sperel@saraleeperel.com, Facebook, or via her website: www.SaraleePerel.com. Her column runs the first Friday of every month.

This article originally appeared on Cape Cod Times: Opinion: To my abba (dad) and my zayde (grandpa) for Father’s Day