Roberta McKern
On a chilled night, when rain mutters across the roof and grumbles down the gutters and a fog-bound wind plucks at the windows and doors, comes a realization: The best place to be is in bed, curled snug and warm beneath one of Grandma’s quilts.
At such a time Grandma can be easily envisioned, a woman past middle-age with greying hair and a pleasant face, who wears a paisley print apron over her…