I just heard Andy Williams died. So did a part of my youth.

 He used a small silver microphone during his 1960s weekly show. I had my feet under the TV to watch closely.

It was a Friday or Saturday night. That meant fish sticks, fries, ketchup on the side, a big glass of milk and I could sleep late.

My mom told me to get my feet out from under the Philco to avoid radiation which might affect my ability to have children. I ignored her. I wanted to get as close to the voice and image before it blurred.

 Facebook Wednesday was abuzz with his death. Women remembered the same admonition from parents and there was a universality of loss from this unique crooner who made holiday holiday music extra special.

 Male or female, Andy was a wonderful weekly show, radiation or not. In the South in the 1960s, male sons were fed, underwear ironed, all needs cared for.

 The clothesline was generally in three tiers — towels, shirts, blankets and such on the outer two layers and unmentionables in the middle row to prevent voyeurism.

 In our case, I think the alleged voyeurism amounted to neighborhood kids eyeing a huge pomegranate tree near the fence, or the 20-foot high fig trees sturdy enough for me to climb down during the night and take an excursion along empty streets.

 Andy was part of all that. He had a beautiful, pure voice from some fountain that is not available to most of us. The Christmas song recordings are timeless, as is my favorite — Moon River.

 When I was in undergraduate school at the University of Alabama, a handful of friends used to go to the river and play guitar on weekends. It was a cheap night out.

Someone brought a bottle of cheap wine to pass around, we did the best we could with the simplest songs from the Beatles, CSN&Y, Hank Williams Sr. and others.

One of my favorites was “Moon River.” The minor chords, the bittersweet , optimistic, romantic lyrics, the simplicity was and is enchanting.

As a child, I remember watching him sing and relished every note. I used to hum his tunes while I peddled the neighborhood with nowhere especially to go.

Remembering him, I realized he was fearless hitting the high notes. I remember Pavrotti, in a different genre, saying no matter where he was he would not abandon the high notes. The risk was huge — “cracking” meant a voice fell off a precipice.

 Roy Orbison, perhaps the greatest vocalist of the 20th century, said during a 1950s recording session that he did not want to hit notes on a recording that he could not reach in concert. His manager told him to do it.

Radiation shielding for TVs got better. So did Andy, and he hit the high notes for more than half a century.Andy Williams did it for half a century.

 I am glad he did.

Thank you, Andy.