remain open even today, a time when any form of healing, of tolerance for diverse moral and ethical perspectives, seems more remote than ever. Fortunately, Terence and I did not have to confront the full force of those conflicts at home. Yes, our parents looked harshly on hippies and the counterculture; they hated and feared LSD and other such drugs, along with the demagogues like Timothy Leary who promoted them. But they also knew the war was an unwarranted and unnecessary travesty. They didn’t encourage us to protest in the streets (we did anyway), but they did strive to keep us in school so we’d qualify for student deferments.
Like many others, my brother and I could avoid the war by graduating from high school and getting into college. That we succeeded can be traced back to the early emphasis our parents placed on books and reading. When they were kids, higher education was still hard to come by; it was seen as a privilege, the key to a better life and career that not everyone could hope to achieve. Though our father decided not to attend college, both our parents were determined that we would. I’m eternally grateful that they passed on a love of learning to us. We didn’t have the sense to realize it at the time, let alone to appreciate how hard they worked to keep us in school while our less fortunate peers were tapped for sacrifice to the god of war. Now, of course, I do appreciate it—now that it’s too late to thank them.
Chapter 4 - Terry and Denny
Terence Kemp McKenna and Dennis Jon McKenna.
Terence Kemp McKenna emerged from his mother’s womb on November 16, 1946. It was the end of a difficult pregnancy. My twin cousins assure me that my brother was a challenge from an early age and quickly earned the appellation “Terrible Terry.” Many infants and toddlers try the patience of their parents, but Terence, a “temperamental” child in modern parlance, apparently pushed ours to the limit. Fortunately, Mom had her sisters to help her through these trying episodes. Their support throughout our childhood was surely a major reason she remained as sane as she did. In fact, our mother was wise and compassionate, and if anything too tolerant. I know we hurt her, profoundly and deeply, many times; and many times in the four decades since her death I have wanted to apologize. I have to believe she knew we loved her despite it all. I suppose this lament is no different from that of any mother’s son. How many of us really honor and appreciate our mothers the way we should? Yet they always forgive us. In my heart, I believe our mother knew we loved her and has forgiven us.
Some time after Terry was born, the little family moved out of our mother’s childhood home to an upstairs apartment in a house near the Bross Hotel (then as now Paonia’s only hotel). They had just settled into their newly built home at Fourth and Orchard when I arrived, on a cold December day in 1950, a week before Christmas. I have no idea if I was “planned” or not, but whatever the case, when I joined the family my parents were delighted. Compared to Terry, I was a model of mellowness, or what some would call a “placid” baby. Though I’m still evenly tempered, certain critics, notably my wife, tell me I’m not as laid back as I like to pretend. Whatever. Compared to Terry, raising me was easy for my parents—at least early on.
Terence was a month past his fourth birthday when I showed up. Until then, he’d been the master of his universe, getting all the attention he craved. Like most any child, he perceived my arrival as a threat to his hegemony, which it was, and for years his primary agenda would be to neutralize this threat by any means. Had I been the elder sibling when he burst into my sweet scene in all his mewling, puking, disgusting glory, I’m sure I would have done the same. I dare say this was probably normal sibling behavior, at least in American society in the fifties. The difference was
Like many others, my brother and I could avoid the war by graduating from high school and getting into college. That we succeeded can be traced back to the early emphasis our parents placed on books and reading. When they were kids, higher education was still hard to come by; it was seen as a privilege, the key to a better life and career that not everyone could hope to achieve. Though our father decided not to attend college, both our parents were determined that we would. I’m eternally grateful that they passed on a love of learning to us. We didn’t have the sense to realize it at the time, let alone to appreciate how hard they worked to keep us in school while our less fortunate peers were tapped for sacrifice to the god of war. Now, of course, I do appreciate it—now that it’s too late to thank them.
Chapter 4 - Terry and Denny
Terence Kemp McKenna and Dennis Jon McKenna.
Terence Kemp McKenna emerged from his mother’s womb on November 16, 1946. It was the end of a difficult pregnancy. My twin cousins assure me that my brother was a challenge from an early age and quickly earned the appellation “Terrible Terry.” Many infants and toddlers try the patience of their parents, but Terence, a “temperamental” child in modern parlance, apparently pushed ours to the limit. Fortunately, Mom had her sisters to help her through these trying episodes. Their support throughout our childhood was surely a major reason she remained as sane as she did. In fact, our mother was wise and compassionate, and if anything too tolerant. I know we hurt her, profoundly and deeply, many times; and many times in the four decades since her death I have wanted to apologize. I have to believe she knew we loved her despite it all. I suppose this lament is no different from that of any mother’s son. How many of us really honor and appreciate our mothers the way we should? Yet they always forgive us. In my heart, I believe our mother knew we loved her and has forgiven us.
Some time after Terry was born, the little family moved out of our mother’s childhood home to an upstairs apartment in a house near the Bross Hotel (then as now Paonia’s only hotel). They had just settled into their newly built home at Fourth and Orchard when I arrived, on a cold December day in 1950, a week before Christmas. I have no idea if I was “planned” or not, but whatever the case, when I joined the family my parents were delighted. Compared to Terry, I was a model of mellowness, or what some would call a “placid” baby. Though I’m still evenly tempered, certain critics, notably my wife, tell me I’m not as laid back as I like to pretend. Whatever. Compared to Terry, raising me was easy for my parents—at least early on.
Terence was a month past his fourth birthday when I showed up. Until then, he’d been the master of his universe, getting all the attention he craved. Like most any child, he perceived my arrival as a threat to his hegemony, which it was, and for years his primary agenda would be to neutralize this threat by any means. Had I been the elder sibling when he burst into my sweet scene in all his mewling, puking, disgusting glory, I’m sure I would have done the same. I dare say this was probably normal sibling behavior, at least in American society in the fifties. The difference was
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