Father, You Are Bad

By Laurette Plaisant

Maybe father, you won the battle,
but I won the war; for our happiness,
in which was blessed on the day of
October 18th, 1969.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477150498

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Laurette Plaisant.

Library of Congress Control Number:     2012913663

ISBN:                 Hardcover           978-1-4771-5048-1

                           Softcover            978-1-4771-5047-4

                           Ebook                  978-1-4771-5049-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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117493

In loving memory of my husband, Michel.

If, in my life, I only wrote one book,

this would be the one.

Translated from my French manuscript

PÈRE, TU ES MÉCHANT

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

How long did that manuscript stay in the bottom of a drawer? Long enough I think, for Laurette finally decided to publish it!

Over twenty years of guilt, shame, and mostly discretion in regard of her mother.

PROLOGUE

I was not comfortable publishing it out of respect for my family, so I stepped back, remembering one of my brothers saying,

That is not nice. Our father is still alive! This was my first guilt then.

A few years later… rest in peace, Father. I went through my documents with good intentions. Honestly, I did try once! By intermediary of a sister from France, I sent that French manuscript to a publisher. Still not sure of good excuses and expenses, or more precisely, because I refused to hurt my family, I gave up.

Now, I have no more guilt! I want to translate my true story in English, and I think my English is good enough, even though I never learned it at school.

Before blaming my father, I should say this: Yes, I still admire my father and my mother, and I will repeat that again and again with thanks.

CHAPTER

1

I remember each day, having good and healthy food on the table. I remember wearing nice clothes appropriate for every season. I even wore fancy clothes on Sundays to go to church.

I come from a large family of twelve children—six sisters and five brothers. Picture this—here was always a baby in the family!

Francine and Monique were not so happy because they received hand-me-downs from Annie and I, the two oldest. Those clothes were in circulation for a long time.

I know it may sound ironic, but it looked adorable to have our younger sisters dress the same way we once did. Those dresses were blue with white buttons down the front and two front pockets marked with white stripes!

Memories—still sweet memories, thinking of our family vacations. I remember going to the Cantal countryside in the middle of France each year until my eighteenth year. My parents rented a charming little house in the prairie.

If you are imagining one similar to Michael Landon’s series, you are in the spot!

Even at times, my parents would surprise us with a rental of an old and almost scary little castle. Also the kind you find in a Halloween horror movie. That, for sure, gets you a picture of our wonderful stead! They were mostly the same-looking brick houses with white shutters, always made with brick and cement in France.

It was fun and joyful walking, jumping, running, and even rolling down the hill through all the high grass, weeds, and wildflowers.

There were blankets of yellow and white flowers covering the prairie. I remember a slanted apple tree that we kids used to play by. We stopped by a rivulet, shoes off, cooling down our feet in that clear fresh water. Those little stones scintillated like pearls and diamonds under the golden sun.

The funny part was in the morning. We woke up to the false note of the rooster’s song, followed by the cows’ bells—no need for an orchestra master here! Crossing the alley in front of our windows, those big mamas were heavily walking, ready to be milked. Each morning, we took turns to go get our fresh container to the farmer’s