One noontime in the Nineties, our group in features left the newsroom and headed over to Sal's for our weekly pizza. On the drive back, Terry put on Sinatra. This was not our music; we had grown up on Motown and rock 'n' roll; this was our parents' music. But in our 30s, without any generational discussion, Sinatra had entered onto our playlists.
"Come Fly With Me" came on as we drove into the parking garage. Terry climbed to the highest floor, then turned the car around so we could float down to the sounds of Frank. We opened the windows, happy to share them. "Weather-wise, it's such a loooove-ly day." It was the last decade in which Sinatran optimism was not out of place in the precincts of journalism.
