The Writing of George Morin prior to 1976

This is in the nature of an autobiography. It is written because it has become obvious to me that I do not reflect to others what my image of myself is. This wouldn't be of much concern to me except that to my surprise, it is not only true of acquaintances, but it seems also that I do not come though to my wife and children. I say it is surprising because I have always felt that at least in essentials, I have expressed myself honestly and forthrightly insofar as the information available to me, my knowledge, and experience at the moment allowed me to. What I hope to accomplish by this writing is a revelation of myself to those who care.

What I expect to come through loud and clear is love. Love of course is many facetted, it is reflected differently according to whom it is expressed. I have seldom been able to articulate the words "I love you," whether to my wife, my children, my brothers and sisters, or other family members to who it would ordinarily be expected that one would express such a fact.

However, and I am ready to admit how wrong this might be, the thoughts is so persuasive that what I want to express is so much more inclusive that what the three words say, that is sounds trite, almost false. It has been my constant idea that my love is expressed not so much by saying it, but by my life, what I have dedicated it to, how I have lived it, to whom its attachments were made. Has it been done perfectly? No- no claim is made for perfection or excellence, or even above the ordinary.

I am not willing that any judgment of my life be made by any human person including myself. Yet, my desire is that those whom I assume love me, understand me and how utterly without reserve I love them. I hope that this writing will reveal that one fact clearly.

This is not intended to be a treatise on love, however I have an idea that anyone reading this will wonder if it is not that just what it is. I can not write my life history without making love the basis of it, it is why I am what I am. This history is not going to be in chronological order. I will tell my life but in whatever order seems to best illustrate what I am trying to explain at that particular time. In telling this I will deliberately refrain from direct adverse criticism of any individual. If by implication, criticism comes though at least be sure that no judgment (again of individuals) is intended.

There is one fundamental fact about me which must be made clear. That is my absolute belief in God. This is the one Person to whom in the quiet of my mind I can say "I love you" and know that my meaning is clear, and that the love is reciprocated overwhelmingly. I believe in Jesus Christ as God's only Son with whom I have communion and who inspires me through the Holy Spirit. As taught and practiced by the Holy Roman Catholic Church, and as a member of that Body, by myself.

I have said that this was not going to be in chronological order, but since I am saying that the basic fact of my life is love of God, that I feel that I ought to start with where the idea started in my infancy.
At that time our family belonged to the Perish of St. Jean de Baptiste- which was the Parish of French speaking Americans of Canadian descent- for the most part. My recollection is of a massive alter with hundreds of lights and many candelabra, numerous statues, and at the rear a choir loft with an organ console, and my pipes. My father used to sing in the choir, he was a tenor, and I recall vividly on Sunday morning climbing those stairs (we lived less that a block away) to see him. I had stopped to play in the dirt on my way and I suppose I wasn't to angelic looking, but my Father picked me up and made me feel welcome. He took me over to see the sisters who taught the parish school and they came through with "bon lous" and many exclamations which of course I don't remember. There really isn't much in this tableau of memory which is remarkable. The incident is prosaic. Yet I think of it often. The sun was shinning, I remember, but as I recall the incident there was more than the sunshine- there was a brightness added to the sunshine, a golden light. Parental love? Of course, that was no doubt, but more , so much more. It is, I now believe, one of the first moments that that great Being who created me revealed himself to me, a little child, a nothing really, but made to feel in that spectacular illumination that he was loved. In the glow of the community of Lord, represented by my Father, the other members of the choir and the teaching sisters, God made Himself present to me, and the memory of it has never left me.

It occurs to me now that I must say something of my mother, for mothers have such a vast influence on the character of a child. I loved her of course- but that does not always mean that we understood each other all the time. She had seven living children. Four girls and three boys, and she lived to be 91 years old. At her death she was senile (I hate the word because it sounds to clinical, it would be so much more descriptive, I suppose, to say she lived in the past.) I wonder sometimes if she regretted her married life. Oh I know she loved us and I am sure that she loved my father, but she liked business (she had a small grocery store before she married, in fact that was how she met my father) and gardening (her father was a farmer) and I am certain that she could have been successful in either venture.

She was a quiet woman, not given to explosive anger and she loved to tell stories about her family, and we loved to listen to them. At least we did until we became adults, then of course we had heard them so many times that we were bored with them. However, I know that she more than any other person shaped my character. But she wasn't too good a housekeeper. No one could fault her own cleanliness, but litter didn't bother her too much. She suffered too from inferiority because the sisters-in-law were rather condescending to her. However, at least on the surface, they got along very well. Those women of old had the very rigid belief in duty. They were there to serve as best they could and their reward was to be obtained in the hereafter. Understand I can not ridicule this idea- the older I become and the more confused I see society become, the more I think maybe they had the right idea.

What I remember most about my mother is going to church with her. At this time we had moved from the Canadian French community to one of predominantly Scandinavian. The church we attended was probably more Irish than any other nationality. The Pastor was from Ireland, a most loving and lovable person. I have never met his equal since. I was only five years old when we moved and my original experience in this parish was mostly impression.
The thing that struck me was the candles. They glowed calmly and quietly, they gave a sense of peace. I became aware of the altar boys, I remember I called them "priest boys" and I wondered where them came from- I couldn't imagine that they were just ordinary boys.

This is all of the writing of George Morin that I have.

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