Grateful to Boreas for keeping out the weak and the craven

The house trembled and rattled as the air slammed against it, and like many people across the Valley, I found myself awake in the middle of the night, listening to the troubling sounds of a building under siege. It seemed that Boreas was up to his tricks once again. The Greek god of the cold north wind is well known in Palmer, and lately it seems he has been in an overachieving mood, throwing air savagely at our little city.

To the Greeks, Boreas was not a pleasant god. His name means “Devouring One,” and he is depicted as an old man with shaggy hair and a beard with acute strength and a violent temper. Based on that description, I suspect there is a good chance I’ve stood behind him in line at Carrs recently. I sincerely hope I wasn’t the one who upset him.

According to a meteorologist I spoke to, the high winds in the Valley have more to do with a large pressure gradient than a Greek god, but I personally think there is something inherently satisfying about blaming the shuddering of my house on an imaginary bearded fellow. Certainly, Boreas presents a much more concrete target than a high-pressure system in mainland Alaska tossing air toward a low-pressure system in the gulf.

But truth be told, I don’t hate the wind. Maybe I still feel gratitude toward it for days off from school when it would knock the power out or cover the roads with mighty drifts. A child’s gratitude goes a long way, and there is a part of me that still enjoys hearing the gusts hammer the house and having the wind rob me of breath as I struggle simply to reach my front door. It adds a bit of adventure to life and transforms the mundane into something a little wild. And I think there is something vaguely poetic about being pushed around by that which keeps us alive — in one instance we draw the air into our lungs and the next it scatters our garbage down the street.

I should hate the wind, of course. It sweeps away snow that should be beneath my skis and makes it difficult to enjoy bright, sunny days. It pushes cars toward ditches and spins dust into the air. It turns doors into weapons, lawn chairs into projectiles and sends newspapers cartwheeling down the street. Trees are pushed to their limits and beyond, and signs are battered, bent and ripped from the ground.

Often when I tell people I live in Palmer, they are quick to note how much they love our fair city, but could never live here due to the torment from the wind. I would never admit to such cowardly thoughts and think we should be grateful to Boreas for keeping out the weak and the craven. Palmer is windy. Brutally so. And if they can’t take the abuse doled out by our angry bearded neighbor then maybe they aren’t the right people to call this place home. As someone raised in this windy land, I submit that it is this unpredictable attack by our atmosphere that makes the people here a little stronger and — ahem — better than most who live in places where the air does not mount formidable and coordinated offensives.

So to Boreas, I tempt fate and say bring it on. I will continue to hold my head high with pride in being from the Valley — except, of course, when I am ducking errant shingles.

Pete LaFrance grew up in Palmer and has moved back to the area after a number of years living abroad.