My father, Maurice George Whale, was a man of many words.

Some hilarious. Kind. Even tender.

But words could also sting. He had a gift for packaging subtle or not-so-subtle jibes that would make you laugh, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

I know he was not the only parent out there who did that, or who failed to consider the long-term effects of the wounding word on vulnerable kids who had long lives ahead of them and would absorb this or that phrase and make it into a (false) truth about themselves.

I know a woman who replays the hurtful stuff her mother said about her in a constant loop in her mind.

I was with dad and one of my brothers at a McDonald’s one afternoon when dad blurted out a dig at my brother that made us and the couple at the next table jump: “Get away from the fan, your head’s whistling!”

Yes, it was funny. Clever. Vintage dad. It was also revealing of his attitude toward my brother.

Summers ago, I was playing with another guitarist at a function in the B Street Plaza, with my folks in attendance. At one point during the performance, dad looked at me, shook his head, and said, “Where’d you come from? Can’t be my kid.” It was actually a compliment about my playing.

But then, the inevitable followup: “You must have been left on the porch by gypsy weirdos.”

Some of dad’s interjections were confusing, and left us wondering: “Did ya catch what dad just said? Was that a compliment? A put down?”

At his grandson’s first piano recital, dad confided in us what he was going to say to him afterward. My sisters and I begged him not to do it. “Or better yet, dad, why not compliment him. He’d appreciate a compliment.”

Nope.

“At least you didn’t stink,” he said. Grandson did not appreciate it.

“You know, dad,” I told him later, “it’s not funny if you’re the only one laughing.”

I don’t know if any of the wounding words had anything to do with what happened — or didn’t happen — years later when my father passed on. It’s tough to admit to, even now. But I never cried for him. Couldn’t find the tears. And ever since, I’ve wondered why.

It doesn’t mean I didn’t love my dad. I did. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. I do. Every day. I miss turning to him when one of his favorite songs plays on the radio, and saying, “You hear that?” Or nudging him when something beautiful I know he would have appreciated passes by.

I told myself that at the end, he was suffering, and so death, when it did come, would come as a relief to him. But I don’t believe that’s what kept the tears from falling. I think it was the residue of the wounding words.

If I could speak to him once more, I’d ask: “Did that mean I have a heart made of stone? You know I loved you, dad, still do.”

I can even hear his reply: “Nothing wrong with your heart, son. Now, your head, that’s another matter …”

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Robert Whale can be reached at robert.whale@soundpublishing.com.