Schmaltz or tradition? I don't really care.

At Christmastime, I simply must listen to Andy Williams. 50 weeks of the year I give the old boy no thought whatsoever. But come mid-December, I need my dose of the blue-eyed sweater man with the smooth (OK, some might say "bland") delivery.

His voice means Christmas to me. It's because of those holiday specials he had each year with his family. When I was growing up, I thought it would be terrific to spend Christmas with the Williams'. They all seemed to happy and normal. No hostility. No tension. No posturing among the uncles and in-laws for alpha dog status, as defined by golf clubs or make of car or the size of the Christmas bonus. None of the aunts or in-laws were overly stressed out or martyr-ish about how hard they worked on the meal or the cookies or the pies. In short, the Williams clan was NOTHING like mine.

Since we're talking 1960s variety specials, each year they were set not on a stage but in the Williams "home." And when the doorbell rang, guess what! It was the Osmond Brothers and little Marie, bringing over a bundt cake and ready to sing "White Christmas" as if they were a barbershop quartet.

Of course as an adult, I realize it was all way more illusion than reality. Andy and Claudine divorced and she was convicted in the shooting death of her skier/lover. Donny Osmond has discussed the stage fright and panic attacks he carried into adulthood as a result of a childhood spent performing and trying to please a perfectionist father.

Yet none of that stops me from wanting Andy this time of year. Corny? You bet. But once wreaths start appearing on front doors and cards in my mailbox, I need to hear him sing "Sleigh Ride" almost as much as I need egg nog.