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After living for four years in Southern California in the early 2000’s, I’ll never complain about the weather in Boise again.

We loved it down there — the energy, the enthusiasm, the access to mountains and ocean and desert all within a few hours’ drive. And at first, the weather felt like a gift. Never too hot, never too cold. A perpetual, comfortable middle.

But after a couple of years I started to miss the seasons. I grew up in Idaho. When you grow up somewhere you become hard wired to expect that weather and seasons. It’s hard to overcome that default setting. Whatever your Christmas morning looked like as a child — whether it meant snow on the ground or a day at the beach — that’s how your internal calendar gets set. Southern California Christmas never felt right to me. I never could get a foothold on the weather out there. It was a rangeless, faceless monolith of lukewarm air — pleasant, yes, but without texture or drama. 

In Boise the temperatures swing from zero to a hundred and five degrees. Now that’s range. And yes, sometimes the summer is too hot and the winter too cold to be enjoyed. I won’t pretend otherwise. 

But I need both. The clarifying heat of July that makes me yearn for winter air. The oppressive cold of February that makes me pine for the heat again. The leaves, moon and Halloween sky in October. And then the first day of spring — green grass shoots poking through the gray and brown.

I guess I’m just an Idahoan.