I'd gone to bed early that Christmas Eve, for reasons I can't quite recall. Tradition dictated I open a present early, and in this case it was an issue of Marvel Comics' Planet Of The Apes magazine, which featured two (exceptionally long) comics stories and a couple of text pieces. Likely that seemed to me to be a full evening's entertainment, more fun than watching people wrap presents, or gab incessantly, or watch TV, or whatever grownups did as preparation for Christmas.
So I retired to my room. Well, "room" may not be an accurate description--as a child, my brothers and sisters had all the real bedrooms upstairs; I slept on a couch in the living room. As they moved out, people shifted from one room to another. By this time, I'd graduated to upstairs and my own bed--but my room was really just the hall way at the top of the stairs, a point of entry to my sibling's rooms.
Still, I had made it my own, with a dresser (which contained comic books and model kits, not clothes), a desk (the drawers well-stocked with comic books) and some floor space (covered by piles of comic books). It was a perfect space for me to relax and enjoy the first story in Planet Of The Apes, which was written by Doug Moench and illustrated by Tom Sutton--I was a junkie for credits even then, and Sutton was one of my favorites.
When I read, I usually was so far gone I had no concept of my surroundings. But in this case, I was aware--aware that it was Christmas Eve, aware that no snow was falling but there was plenty on the ground, aware, of course of course, that tomorrow was the most important day on any kids' calender.
Aware, too, of the noises from downstairs. A steady murmur, mostly, the sound of my parents' TV mixed with conversation, laughter, the hum of our fuel oil stove. Occasionally, voices sounded agitated and there was some banging, likely the result of one of my presents being assembled, though I couldn't be sure.
And I liked that sound, and I put down the magazine and just listened for awhile, and when I gre bored with that, I turned on the radio, to drown out the sound and help me concentrate on Planet Of The Apes. Oddly, except for this one memory, I cannot recall having a radio in all the time I lived in this room. I had a TV, used mainly for watching James Bond movies, war and science fiction pictures and cartoons. (No, my tastes haven't changed much.) But the radio--it must have just been left there by mistake, or maybe I just didn't use it; I wasn't really into music at all in those days.
The radio was tuned to a local station playing nothing but Christmas music, and it made a nice companion to Moench's story and Sutton's illustrations. I finished the first story, skimmed the text pieces and decided to save the second story for some other time, then shut off the light and snuggled under the covers. The radio stayed on, and the last sound I remember hearing before drifting off was Karen Carpenter's syrupy but oddly melancholy voice singing "Merry Christmas, Darling."
I awoke suddenly, convinced it was Christmas morning. But it was still dark. My clock said it was only 10:30. The light in the stairway illuminated a passing figure, a brother or sister en route to their room, and this shadowy presence paused to shut off my radio. I didn't mind, I never listened to music as I slept. Soon the house was still, and quiet as it could ever be, braches scraping against windows, stove purring, my oldest brother snoring, the whole world slumbering in silent anticipation, the whole world at peace.
