Grandmama Agatha's Culturally Costly Cats

During a weekend rather obscured by a haze of the purple hue, I found myself in reminiscence, at least during such time as I was not engaged in counting the ants traveling along a ledge outside the window of our ensconcement, over my dear departed grandmother, Dame Agatha Winthrop, whose life and budding career (which I will forthwith describe) was cut short by the wheels of a 1954 Metropolitan, hurling her aging but still active body from the Williamsburg Bridge (where she always insisted in taking her nightly walk, into Manhattan and then back to Brooklyn, quite a bit of exercise for anyone, young or old, no less considering her insistence on eschewing the traditional walking escarpment for the actual roadway itself) into the East River.
For some months prior to this tragedy (to the Winthrop family, certainly, but I am sure by the end of my story all will agree, a loss quite possibly to all of Culture itself) Grandmother Agatha had taken to imbibing in the "Sweet Leaf" (as monikored by noted connoisseur of all things consciousness altering, Ozzy Ozbourne, and recorded on the collection of melodies "Master of Reality" by the Black Sabbath musical ensemble) to relieve her considerable difficulty slipping into the arms of Morpheus. This had quite the opposite effect, however, as it seemed to grace her with boundless energy and creativity, as well as a touch of dementia. Her outlet for this newfound "Arte Vida", as well as its rather eccentric side effects, would be considered by some to be a "folk" or "naive" or "outsider" art, ala another genius of a certain age, the great Grandma Moses.
Grandmother Agatha imagined herself to be the maiden of Greek mythology, Arachne. She began an extensive project of weaving enormous and elaborate webs from balls of yarn she had originally collected for the amusement of her growing brood of cats. The walls, ceilings and floor of the largest room in her apartment were covered with these colorful and gossamer creations. The thorough documentation she had prepared left us with the impression that she had intended to submit her work to a number of museums. Then the foul hand of Tragedy reached up from its fetid catacombs and destroyed these smoke filled dreams; she was struck down by the aforementioned assassin. But Tragedy was not yet done with his perfidious labors! Several days passed before Grandmother Agatha's remains were discovered amidst the usual refuse of New York's rivers. During this time her cats, desperately seeking nourishment, came upon a hidden stash of the "herb of enjoyment", ate their fill, and then ripped the through closed door to Grandmama's work room and destroyed the yarn webs in a frenzy of feline frolic!
Thus was lost a treasure both birthed and, ironically, some may suggest, obliterated by "reefer madness".