For those not born into Kunkletown, like yours truly, this land is the ultimate triumph of sacrifice.

For me, it was a full circle journey from the crowded tenements of Brooklyn, New York, to the sweeping mountain views and vast rolling valleys of Pennsylvania.

I would stick my head out of the car window as a child when we drove past the “Welcome to Pennsylvania” sign. I believe the toll was one dollar then. I took in that breath of fresh air. It smelled real. The smell of real air.

This is a story of my elders, the Italian immigrants who arrived with little to no money, a sacred faith and an unshakable work ethic. They sacrificed, endured the noise and concrete, all to build the American Dream.

But their goal was never just money. The goal was home. Home isn’t a place. It’s more.

They searched for a piece of the Old World, a place where the dirt was fertile and the air was clean. They found it here in Kunkletown. They didn’t have the money to take trips to Italy. Still, together, as a family, they pitched in to have a home for my big family to visit, to feel like we were in their motherland, giving the next generations an understanding of what the world they left behind was like, and it was right here in their own new country. Why go back? Home was here. Together.

The trees saw me grow up. Everyone went their own way. This home was borderline abandoned, and it was gifted to me as a wedding present from my whole family because, well, no one loves the green world more than Anty. She isn’t afraid of bugs like those other girls and prefers dirt and rocks over diamonds and pomp.

I packed my luggage in February as a child, looking forward to the summers in Kunkletown with our besties, our cousins, and a large, laughing Italian family. We traded the smell of hot asphalt for the scent of fresh, green foliage and the “salt of the earth” farming life.

Spring reminds us of the sacrifices that must be made, the necessary hibernations, before we can go full steam ahead into the sunshine, unapologetically welcoming the light of day.

Being here as a full-time resident and no longer a summer visitor, this slice of Pennsylvania feels in tune with the land. It’s a place of deep community and intense pride. We remember that a broken nail or a tough day doesn’t matter when we honor the generations before us, like our grandmothers, who worked until their hands were rough, sometimes even washing clothes by the stone in a creek, far from the conveniences we have now.

The people of Kunkletown have much in common with rural Italians. It must have something to do with the land and the connection to the core. Moreover, the unity.

This time of year, the Easter tradition is to give something up for 40 days and 40 nights during Lent, pray the rosary at 3 p.m. on Good Friday, and abstain from meat on Fridays. All small sacrifices to thank God for His sacrifice. It’s a tradition as well as a sign of respect, restraint and a small sacrifice just for the honor of resurrection in the heavens and on earth.

As we celebrate the cycle of birth, death and resurrection, we look at the green hills of Kunkletown with gratitude. The Italian American dream wasn’t just to survive; it was to build a life worth living, and to ensure we could truly live it, rooted in community, surrounded by nature and full of joy. Thank you, Kunkletown.

Ever so often, the trees bordering the Blue Mountain remind me of how I was a fairy ballerina princess every summer. I wink at ’em.