You are never far from the wind in WInnipeg, where I spent most of my childhood, but you never really get used to it. You know that it is coming and you brace yourself, but even with years of training, it only takes three days of incessant wind before you start to develop that twitch in your eye. The twitch takes over your psyche and before long you are plotting your escape from the constant airstream that's flattening the grasses in the ditch banks. In your head, you run screaming down the highway, throwing yourself into the first car that slows down.
These days, I am surrounded on three sides by a bank of evergreens. It takes a concentrated effort for that prairie wind to make its way into the city, to hunt me down, and to penetrate my spruce barricade. These days it's only the most determined of winds that rattle the window panes. The autumn winds that lift the branches of those long-lived deciduous trees, the ones that hang on to the last of the yellow foliage, are only toying with me.
Unless I invite them in, they can only peer through the frosted glass, and wait for me to step outside.