I’m not the fastest person at seven o’clock in the morning. Little Italy was still asleep and the regular characters were nowhere to be seen. The pouring rain and a wet cigarette hanging from my mouth pretty much painted the picture in living grey colors.

It was that time again, one year later to the day. The art deco Royal Theatre displayed a congratulatory sign welcoming another day of recognition. Water trickled down the photos of the faces of past inductees on the noveau flags hanging from the black ornate lampposts. The trolleys had had a few hours to run along College Street, allowing passengers to see the set up, before the road had been shut down.

The enthusiastic eclectic collection of people, most of them Italian or of Italo descent would unite with eyes wide open to see and listen to the heroes that had touched their lives in some way. Let’s not forget the press, those dedicated digiton camera zoomers who get an incredible high each time they capture “the moment”. The production unfolded as the trucks began to arrive with the necessary props needed to get the message across. Tony, the Asian owner of Cupps in the heart of the action, made me an Americano knowing I like it in a ceramic cup. He asked, “how many staws you put in sidewalk?” “Five, Tony, five this year.”

I glanced at the squares of plywood that covered the granite and brass stars and couldn’t help feel a slight rush of melancholy as I stood there drenched. The black plastic chairs were already lined up in the front of the podium for the expected dignitaries. The red carpet and velour stanchions separated the crowd from the limo pathway. It was going to be another spectacular event. I gazed up at the blue-gray sky and noticed a ray of sunshine fighting hard to penetrate the indecisive clouds that lingered overhead for no reason at all. This marked the 2nd year for this special event who many thought would never even get off the ground.

Not only did it get off the ground, it rocketted to heights of wondrous unexpectancy. Two kids from a homeland they left so long ago decided to keep the arteries of time flowing for new generations to come. History, education, subtle romance and a savory culture permeated the ambiance as the crowd grew larger. I wasn’t surprised by the eclectic group of individuals clutching their designer water that were gathered under umbrellas whispering to one another, “Can you believe Armand Assante is here today?” Icons are in our dreams and on the screens, but here? The truth is they were right.

Jets from the circus airshow pirouetted over our heads as the microphones delivered the speeches to the ears of curious fans. They were not disappointed as their idols touched both their hearts and souls as each, in turn, gratefully accepted their permanent place in history. I sat in one of those uncomfortable black plastic chairs and absorbed not only the dedication of people working together to achieve a common spirit, but also their honest desire to share with the world human kindness through the Italian Walk Of Fame