Getting out more

Dear Mother and Father,

As evidenced by the existence of this letter, I survived my attempt to alter my cheese gun! It works surprisingly well now, and I only have the faintest singe marks on my clothing. I can't believe that happened.
I have also constructed boots and a shawl from the skins of fluffy mimmoths. I feel much warmer when I go outside, and I didn't even have to leech off of others! I really am getting better at this survival thing, don't you think? "Good" is a bit beyond my reach, of course, but surely I'm doing better than before!
I regret to say that I did not attend the evening party last night. From what I gathered by peeking in the windows (unnoticed, I believe and hope), everyone who normally runs the parties--including Miss Blackheart of the Music and every single Jaegerperson, plus Valdy's close friends--was absent, and an assortment of guests had made themselves at home of their own will. Now, I am aware that some of them hold positions of authority in the military and business and such, but I was unsure if it was a good idea to go in and mingle with them uninvited. I know somebody owns that place, so it is not my habit to just waltz on in without an invitation. Please, don't you think such etiquette is reasonable?
I ended up wandering off and hiking on the nearest mountain. The December air is so chilly, but it's nice to be out of doors (and also out of mines, I mean). I know sunlight is bad for my complexion, and I haven't any arsenic powder to correct it, but some strange animal drive deep inside me likes the light. I think I've kept properly sheltered for the majority of the winter, though; my hair has turned almost jet black from the lack of sunshine, and back in the spring when I last saw you, I'm fairly certain it was chestnut brown.
I don't think I've been anywhere near those mountain woods since I chased down the wild kitty to get Squeezy's pelt. There don't seem to be any edible flowers left on it anymore, but I oughtn't fret because I have my cheese gun. It's a beautiful place, kind of bare in some places and thoroughly wild in others, but of course it isn't like a tidy postcard photograph, and I really need to wrench my heart away from Dunwich. I still cannot wrap my feeble mind around what made the place so utterly abhorrent to sensible folks. I recall that the land had its own ideas about what ought to grow out of it, no matter what anybody did; yet I don't think everything it did produce was worthless in its own right. I don't remember why the singing birds and frogs drove the grownups to distraction. I don't remember what people found frightening about having steep hills snuggled up close to them; even if there were diabolical pagan gods with trickier names than mine waiting under every third mound of dirt, didn't you have a God of your own? And although you've said it many, many times, I still have some difficulties grasping what made the neighbors horrible people. Many of them were aloof, uneducated, and rather sickly, but I don't recall seeing them do anything horrible. Even Mr. Whateley, so feared for his sinful past, surely couldn't have continued to do wicked things after baby Lavinny was born, could he? Someday I would like to send the whole village a telegram and ask how things are. Wouldn't you perhaps like to know as well?
Forgive my impudence. I will speak of this matter no more.
On my lovely hike beside Steelhead, I found a big river and a little farm-mill. There I saw Miss Gearbox with her mother and her many siblings. I didn't see a father, so perhaps he isn't strong enough for farm work. On the other hand, Mrs. Gearbox may be a widow (poor thing!). Since the siblings look so unlike each other, she may have even been widowed more than once. I didn't approach them because I didn't want to distract them from their chores nor bother a large group all at one time nor accidentally guilt them into feeding an extra mouth. I ultimately set up camp across the road, just far enough where they would not have been able to see the fire. In spite of what the cheese gun seemed to indicate, the Ashbourne Curse is still in effect: I was able to start a respectably-sized campfire by setting my mind to building a pocketwatch out of twigs. I hope nobody noticed the "boom!" or grew alarmed by it. I don't know whether to be comforted or saddened by the fact that the Ashbourne Curse still operates so strongly. We still don't know what causes it (although you agreed it's probably neurological). Still, there are some aspects to fret about, in my own subjective opinion. For example, what if it grows stronger with age? I shouldn't like to accidentally blow something up whilst making a sandwich--although it turned out fine when you did so, Father. Surely your explosion survival talents are the greatest in all the land. On the upside, my campfire was much smaller than that horrible locomotive incident that gave you the horrible scars and which I've yet to live down.
It's funny: I say things to you now that I would never have said to you months ago. I have said useless things; petty things; frivolous things; brash things; rebellious things; wicked things. Perhaps absence makes the heart grow not necessarily fonder, but more nakedly like its deepest internal condition. It doesn't help that of all the adults I have met, none are interested in disciplining a child who is not their own, and they have instead allowed me to make many mistakes. It's really no wonder God allowed the sea monster to rise against them.
This is a dreary topic. I suppose if I am to learn anything from it, it must be that my self-discipline needs to improve. That's unsurprising, of course, but it is about time I took it seriously.
In any case, I suppose you may wish to thank the Powers That Be for preventing any wild critters from eating me in my sleep. That's usually a good thing.

Shaqad