hindsight is always 20/20, but lookin' back it's still a bit fuzzy

I got this in the email from my Grandmother. Keep in mind that I haven't seen this woman since I was 9 or 10 and have only had 3 correspondences with Her since then, all through email, and all stupid ass Fwd: Fwd:'s. Don't even bother to read the whole thing. The first two and last few lines will give you a good enough idea of what it says.

This is precious. I don't think our kids know what an apron is The principle use of Grandma's apron was to protect the dress underneath, but along with that, it served as a holder for removing hot pans from the oven. It was wonderful for drying children's tears, and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears. From the chicken-coop the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven. When company came those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids. And when the weather was cold, grandma wrapped it around her arms. Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove. Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron. From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables. After the peas had been shelled it carried out the hulls. In the fall the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees. When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds. When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and the men knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner. It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace that "old-time apron" that served so many purposes. Send this to those who would know, and love the story about Grandma's aprons. REMEMBER THIS! "Grandma used to set her hot baked apple pies on the window sill to cool. Her granddaughter set theirs on the window sill to thaw".

To that I say Sheesh.

Let me tell you why.

My grandmother was a baptist-turned-christian-scientist-turned-black-witch-turned-whatever-the-hell-cookoo-religious-Shirley-Maclaine-is-into-Ramtha-shit. She drove her youngest daughter to her drug dealer's house because hitchhiking was dangerous. When she wasn't busy putting hexes on the grandkids or looking after her brother who kept chickens (many, many chickens) and whose house had no roof, she was trying to get the dog to levitate and channeling George Washington. My strongest memory of her is the day when she screamed at her sister for throwing away a perfectly good, month old, covered in mold loaf of wheat bread, and then tried to make me a sandwich on said trash-picked, penicillin-ridden bread. Needless to say, we were not aloud to visit her. She's bat shit crazy. Nice, to be sure, but looney as the day is long. (Just like all my relatives, but that's beside the point.)

Why in the name of god and all that's holy she thought I would appreciate this email or somehow be moved to whimsical sentimentality by it, I'll never know. Clearly, she has a much sunnier picture of her life as a grandmother than I do.