My maternal grandparents grew up in Minnesota. I’m not sure where, exactly, maybe Duluth, because they didn’t talk about it or I didn’t think to ask when I could. He was a jeweler and she started working with him at some point, and they traveled between farmers’ markets and state fairs. Eventually they married in San Diego, which we know from a letter we found in the boxes left behind. As far as I know, they never went back.

And so my mother grew up in Southern California, blocks from the beach, in a city without seasons. I grew up in a climate where swimming in February wasn’t unusual. Snow was a thing we could visit by driving up into the mountains, and we could leave it there, when we were done.

My parents once asked my grandparents if they wanted to come with us on one of these trips. To see snow? Why would we want to see snow? We moved to California to get away from the snow.

I’m writing this in Boston, during a blizzard that could drop two feet of snow on us. My kids will miss school today, and likely tomorrow. Wednesday is not guaranteed. Snow is caked on the windows like we lost an epic snowball fight. Maybe we did.

At some point today (or probably tomorrow), people will push their way outside with shovels and scrapers. A neighbor with a mower will help clear our sidewalk, and we’ll all dig out the cars and clear paths through the snow. My kids are old enough to help now and are excited to be outside shoveling. Someone will check on older people on the block and make sure they can get out, too.

Seasons are overrated, I said for a long time after moving here. The pools are almost all indoors. I own boots and gloves and coats for different levels of winter. How did we end up back here, two generations later?

People ask me, when they hear I’m from California, why I would ever move to Boston. And I always say: For the weather.