The howling, hammering wind seems proof of its intent to strip the roof, shake down the house or lift it clear and blow it somewhere miles from here. But perhaps the rattling, shuddering walls are only an outgrowth of a time when men no longer build to last with timbers meant to creak and groan, to ''breathe'' and flex in any weather - (even a chair, with many woods made to react against each other, hold fast and never come unglued.) What now? Do I race out in the storm, lash the wind with a seaweed whip and shout ''Enough - '' as some used to do? Better, better to adapt, adapt as even the flying squirrel, seen to use his bushy tail as parachute, sunshade and umbrella. Better, until the storm is through, make do with what's mine for making do.