I sit on the porch of an old yellow house in the Catskill Mountains. Beneath me is a sturdy wood porch, and my fingers fiddle with the cracks and knots as I scan the scene before me. To my left, beyond the highway that now cuts in front of the house, are beautiful mountains, illuminated with yellow, orange, red, and brown leaves. This is the prime week for leaf-peepers. As I scan to the right the mountain range continues, warm colors jutting into the cool blue sky, like the painting palette of God. To the right begins what looks like a collection of quaint, country-side Dutch style houses, encircled by a metal fence. It was designed for passers-by to never know that a water sanitation facility lay at the feet of these majestic mountains. Finally the view ends in the seemingly endless highway that trails off into the distance. In all the spot the yellow house is nestled into is a conglomeration of natural beauty and mismatched industrial comforts, melding together into a picture I call home.