When I was seven years old, my parents took me with them to visit my Aunt Sue and Uncle Mickey Mastroianni. Uncle Mick worked in the jukebox business, so he always had a lot of records. Later that night, as we were leaving, my uncle handed me an album and said, “Here. Take this home and listen to it.”

It was called "Frankie." I studied the cover – a painting of a handsome young guy singing, collar open, tie loosened, hat pushed back jauntily on his head. I did as my uncle told me, and played that album. I played it until I knew every single word of every single song, and every note of music.

Frank Sinatra became such an integral part of my life, it was like having another uncle. If I had a childhood crush on somebody, he knew the thrill of it. “I’ve got a crush on you, sweetie-pie…” If I was feeling happy, he heightened it…”I’ve got the world on a string, sitting on rainbow…” When housework had to be done, there was no better background music than “C’mon cutes, put on your Basie boots, and come dance with me!” Teenage love gone wrong?…”Make it one for my baby, and one more for the road..” The Blues?” Oh, he knew about the blues all right. Just listen to “What’s New” or “Angel Eyes” and try not to cry. And when times were really low – so low that only Sinatra would understand?…”"Maybe I should have saved those leftover dreams. Funny, but there’s that rainy day.”

It just went on like that forever. Sinatra defined happiness, love, loneliness, and a broken heart. He defined the seasons – “Spring is Here,” “Summer Wind,” “Autumn in New York” – as he defined the seasons of our lives. He had been through it all and he took us all with him generation by generation. He could ring-a-ding-ding it one minute, and swoop your heart away the next; make you roll with laughter, or make you remember, with terrible poignancy, the ache of a shattered romance…
“Drinking again, and thinking of when you loved me…” He knew. He understood.

There are going to be countless written tributes to Frank Sinatra. A lot of them will say he was the “consummate entertainer” or“The Voice of the 20th Century” or words to that effect. But there really are no words to describe his legacy. Not just to music, but to those of us who were lucky enough to have been around during his lifetime. He owned the 50s. He sailed steady through the tumultuous 60s (along with Jilly & Dino & Sammy, and his famous "Rat Pack" - who didn't want to hang out with them?). He retired in '71 but, to our enormous relief, returned soon after. He began to grow old in the 80s, but true to himself (as always) he refused to stop singing, refused to stop touring until his own body forced him to. And even then, in the 90s, he gifted us with two more recordings - Duets I & II - as if to say good-by. Or, in his own words, "Good-bye, baby, and amen!'

In the early 80s, during an international tour, his best friend Jilly Rizzo was wearing the official tour jacket. On the back were the words, "It's his world. We're only living in it." Funny, but as long as it was ''his world," I always felt that, somehow, things would be okay. No matter what happened, I could always go home and, to borrow a line from Stephen Bishop, "Put on Sinatra and start to cry." Somewhere out there, I just knew he'd understand, and I felt better.

Something is terribly wrong with the world tonight. Something - someone - is missing and, for the first time since I was seven years old, I have to face the night without him. It's a bad case of the blues, and I can't play Sinatra to make myself feel better.

Before my beloved Uncle Mickey passed away, I took out that old album and I showed it to him. Worn and fragile now, more precious than ever, I thanked my uncle with all my heart. It was one of the greatest gifts of my life.

See ya, Pal.