The phone rang last night at 10:40. Too early for a drunk calling with a nasty proposition (that actually happened not long ago) but too late even for my mother, a notorious night owl who is known to call at my bedtime.

It was almost-19-year-old Kit, our freshman, calling from Occidental College in Eagle Rock, California. My regular CA. readers know where that is — for those of you who don’t, Eagle Rock is a little hamlet tucked into a nook between Los Angeles and Pasadena.

Due to the wonder of cell phones, we talk at least once each day. But this did not bode well.

Kit: “Hi Mom.”

Me: “Hi. What’s wrong? Are you OK?”

Kit: “The fire is about two miles away from campus right now. They told us we might get evacuated during the night. But it would have to keep moving down the hills and jump at least one big freeway to get to us. So don’t worry.”

Me: (Very calm-sounding, of course) “Oh, I’m not worried. Well, I’m a little worried. Fire can move fast, you know. If they come to evacuate you, don’t ask questions. Don’t stop for anything. Just go.”

The truth is, I had been busy on deadline at work all day and somehow hadn’t heard or read anything about the fire in L.A.’s Griffith Park, which was spreading like, well, like wildfire into the Hollywood Hills. During our phone conversation I quickly turned on CNN, where I watched flames leapining skyward and heard the reporter talking ominously about the possibility the fire would reach the Griffith Observatory and the landmark “HOLLYWOOD” sign. (I flipped through The Salt Lake Tribune this morning looking for even a single-paragraph blurb about the fire — not one word. Not even deep inside the national section. That Calfiornia fire story–it’s just so not local.)

Back in October 1991, one of Ted’s best friends was killed while desperately trying to escape the wind-whipped flames of the infamous Oakland Hills Firestorm. It was world-class mountain climber and author Leigh Ortenburger, one of 25 killed in the fire, which spread through several cities before firefighters got it under control. Ted and Leigh became close friends when the two worked summers as Exum guides in the Tetons, and also as rescue rangers. Bonds of friendship form easily when you’re working as a team, levering injured people off the Grand Teton and neighboring peaks.

The story of Leigh’s death is chilling. He was lunching with two friends in the Oakland Hills when an evacuation order came. Winds up to 65 mph were spreading the flames phenomenally fast. One of the friends survived; Leigh and another did not. It was a great loss. In 1996, A Climber’s Guide to the Teton Range by Leigh and fellow climber and Teton Park ranger Reynold (Rennie) G. Jackson was published. The book is considered the most comprehensive guide to Teton climbing and includes all kinds of information related to the area’s climate, geology and mountaineering history.

I raise all that in part to convince myself how serious fire is. I’ve never had to fight one, or escape one or witness its damage to anything I own or any person I love. I slept fitfully last night. No further word from Kit, either. A good sign. And I fell asleep whispering a prayer: “please keep her safe, please keep her safe.”

Kit did tell me last night that she felt remarkably calm compared to some of her dormmates who were nearly hysterical. She thinks she knows why. We lived in Fort Worth, Texas when she was very young. From the time Kit was age three to age 10, we regularly took cover in our home from tornadoes — or at least predicted tornadoes. She and her younger brother, Sam, remember the time we all huddled in the main hall of our classic Texas rambler (no basement) because it had no exterior windows. Their dad and I made them put on their bike helmets. The twister did, indeed, sound like a freight train. We heard a crash, but stayed put till the wind and noise stopped and it was eerily quiet.

When we walked into the kitchen, a hailstone the size of a toaster was on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass. The thing had crashed right through the skylight. Outside, aging pin oak trees were uprooted like toys. Our roof shingles had been torn off like paper. Thankfully, no one in the area had been injured.

“I think all that practice during tornadoes is helping me now, Mom,” Kit said.

Thank you, India.
Thank you, terror.
Thank you, disillusionment.
Thank you frailty, thank you consequence.
Thank you, thank you, silence.
– Alanis Morissette

VARANASI, India–Something changed me here.

I can’t say that about some destinations. I am by no means a world traveler — my first trip to Europe came only two years ago. When my college friends, 25-plus years ago, were backpacking through France, or flopping in youth hostels in London, I was schlepping orders as a cocktail waitress and finishing my degree.

Years later, with an income and some freedom, I’ve traveled a bit more. Only a bit, though. I do know that when a place speaks your name, you must listen. This is what Varanasi did for me. It’s been three weeks since we returned from a long trip to Uttar Pradesch province in northern India. Still, at least every couple of days I am momentarily distracted from some mundane task by scenes or memories of that ancient city on the Ganges.

Sunrise on the Ganges, March 2007

How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out?
How about not equating death with starving?
Thank you India. Thank you, providence. …
– Morissette

Some say that Varanasi, about 400 miles southeast of New Delhi, is the oldest city in the world still functioning largely as it did centuries ago. Narrow streets snake through the neighborhoods bordering the famous ghats, a series of stairways that line the banks of the holy Ganges River. The scent of incense fills the alleys. The aroma of exotic flowers being woven into leis for burials is intoxicating. You walk through the streets, your eyes popping at the color, your ears throbbing from the rattle and hum of commerce. You watch the ground to avoid stepping in piles of fresh cow dung, even dodge a lazy cow or two tromping near you or grazing through stacks of trash.

The ghats, Varanasi

Follow the winding streets, and and all at once the Hindu Golden Temple is upon you. In keeping with the security concerns of the moment, armed Indian soldiers and city police stand guard every few feet. Visitors go through three separate searches, then enter the sacred shrine, barefoot. Inside, a brahman priest blesses each pilgrim. No photos allowed inside.

It took me a couple of hours to even begin clarifying the power of Varanasi. I’m still sorting it out. The city’s magnificent impact has everything to do with its life force–which is to say, death. This is the city of the Ganges, or in Hindi, Ganga. All devout Hindus believe that after death, their ashes must be committed to the Ganges’ sacred waters. If there is a city in the world whose very life depends on the death industry, it is Varanasi. At a traditional crematorium (there also is an electric one, farther down the river), bodies burn on pyres all day and night, often four to five at a time.

Once an elaborate burning ritual ends, the oldest male member of the surviving family walks to the banks of the river carrying a small urn of the departed’s ashes. He wades into the water, then tosses the ashes from the urn over his shoulder. He does not look back, thus signifying the finality of this relationship. Then he returns to the riverbank and joins other male family members. By tradition, women do not participate in the cremation ritual.

No pictures are allowed at the cremation site.

On the rare chance that the dead person may have reached the Hindu state of “enlightenment,” he or she will not return to Earth again. This is the greatest hope, of course. But with the Hindu belief in reincarnation, it’s quite possible the departed will return in some other life form.

People also come here in preparation for dying. Entire buildings on the river are devoted to hospice care, where dying Indians can live out their final days — in full recognition of their limited time — while only yards away from Ganga, the mother to whom they will soon return.

Just 25 yards down the river, daily life proceeds in most ordinary ways. People wash laundry in the water. Pilgrims bathe and swim. It’s expected that Hindus will make at least one pilgrimage to the Ganges in their lifetime, to partake of the holy water. Westerners have trouble with this — it’s an understatement to describe the water as “dirty.” Its headwaters are a small stream in the Himalayas, but by the time the water reaches urban India, it is a wide, churning expanse of murky water, scarcely the pristine mountain water of its origin.

I find beauty in that, too. People live on the earthy reality of this water. Raw sewage runs into it. Human remains sink to the bottom of the river (including the ritualistic commitment of the female pelvic bone and male ribs after cremation). Everything begins and ends here.

The day that we left Varanasi, as we loaded back onto the bus for the hotel, I found myself gazing out the window, my eyes puddling with tears. For a moment I found it hard to breathe. The more I fixated on what I had seen in Varanasi, the harder I cried. I bawled like a baby, with no sign of the tears drying up. Of course they did, eventually. But I learned more about myself and my own struggle with the concept of death that day than I could ever have guessed.

It’s no great revelation that Americans can’t quite grip the finality, even the glory of death with the same art that other cultures do. We fear it, run from it, do everything we can to stave it off — from multivitamin regimens to botox to dumping decent, age-appropriate spouses for trophy wives and husbands. For the first time, there on the Ganges, I had seen an entire culture face death honestly, matter-of-factly, and with love and respect. On one end of the river, bodies burn and survivors mourn publicly, then finish the ritual and go home. On another end of the river, people wash their laundry, bathe, cup the river water in their palms and drink.

The lower caste washes laundry daily in the Ganges

Laundry drying on the ghats

Freshly washed women’s saris, drying on the ghats

Varanasi. Where life meets death, and commerce goes uninterrupted. Thank you India.

The gods oversee the ghats

You know those moments when some item in the news, a fabulous quote or some whammo-concept stops you long enough to make you actually think? Your mind starts racing and before you know it, you are pondering this idea taking root in your world.

This has been going on for me all week. It started with this announcement of a new Utah advocacy group. You also can read about Utah Physicians for a Healthy Environment by linking to Doug Fabrizio’s live KUER-FM90 interview here.

Environmental groups, even organizations as button-down as the American Lung Association, have been warning about the danger of auto emissions and unfettered coal burning power plants for decades. When strides are made, like the federal Clean Air Act (34 years ago!), we’re all jumping up and down. Then a few more steps forward. Then nothing. Or worse, the clock gets turned back under presidential administrations and congresses that can’t say no to auto makers and big energy interests.

But ah, what about doctors? What about those men and women wrapped in white coats, with stethoscopes hanging from their necks and offering that thoughtful nod as they listen to your list of symptoms? Credible folks, those docs. And smart. And in the eyes of our state lawmakers, the docs have no political axes to grind. When the guys in the white coats begin beating the drum for air quality along the Wasatch Front, someone in power might really listen.

Dr. Brian Moench, a Salt Lake anesthesiologist and leader of the physicians’ group, has written several opinion pieces for Salt Lake City newspapers on the topic. He’s got current research about increased afflictions related to minute particulates in the air that link directly to asthma (rates are skyrocketing in children everywhere–especially in urban areas), cancers (more than 80 percent of them are environmentally caused) and generally shortened life spans.

Among other ideas, Utah Physicians for a Healthy Environment are advocating for fewer vehicles on the road. To help accomplish that, they’re pushing for free mass transit. Whoa. Now that’s an idea with some heft. Can you picture a Utah state budget that for once defers to better transit options — and maybe even free — over more and more highway construction?

It’s so radical the thought makes me shiver.

My stepdaughter, Jenny Wilson, had the same stop-in-your-tracks feeling I did last week, apparently. Jenny is running for mayor of Salt Lake City this year, and according to one privately commissioned poll by a prominent local business, is far ahead of the 10-candidate pack for the race, at 21 percent name recognition and favorable image.

Jenny and her husband, Trell Rohovit, are parents of two little boys, ages four and one. Zach and Max are healthy and adorable. But they will take over this planet someday, and their parents and grandparents are starting to worry about its future. A lot.

Currently a Salt Lake County Council member-at-large, Jenny last week spoke in favor of a Salt Lake County Council of Governments proposal for a commission to study Utah’s endangered air quality and ways to improve it.

I know, I know. You read the words “commission” or “task force” and have to stifle a yawn. But it’s like this: If the county (and Salt Lake City, which I hope will be under Jenny’s charge after the November election) gets a jump on this issue — working in tandem with these progressive physicians and other advocates for clean air — we have more ammunition for the state Legislature and Utah’s congressional delegation to do something meaningful.

I haven’t been this charged about an issue since Roe vs. Wade.

I promise, I’m trying to get back into regular posting. I can blame my slovenly writing pattern on jet lag, but that only goes so far, right? Or how about this excuse: With fair skies yesterday and only a bit of blustery March wind, Ted, Rick Reese and I rode our bikes up Salt Lake City’s Emigration Canyon. This is a routine “stay in shape” ride for devoted SLC road cyclists and typically not difficult at all.

Nevertheless, I absolutely bonked about two-thirds of the way up, begging off and turning around just short of The Sun and Moon Cafe. My legs felt heavier than two redwood tree trunks and my breath came in hard gasps (Ted later told me I’m recovering from more than two weeks at low-altitude life in India, but I’m skeptical of the science behind that. My Calvinist/Mormon upbringing would tell me I was just being lazy).

So I rode home — fast — against a nasty headwind. That was my day’s exercise challenge.

Anyway, my point is I’m finding all kinds of creative excuses for not posting regularly on Mullentown, not the least of which is spring fever. I’ll try to fight through it.

This brings me to one of the features I love most about floating around the blogosphere: Contributions from readers. You see them routinely in the form of posted comments. And sometimes I get e-mails that flesh out a certain topic even more, or provide a glimpse into a fellow blogger’s life.

One of those people is Larry O. Miller. Regular visitors to Mullentown will recognize Larry’s name. We’ve never met, though Larry and I go way back. See, he’s a “Mullenista,” which is the nickname one of the first fans of my former Salt Lake Tribune column bestowed on loyal readers. When I left the paper three months ago and started this blog, I e-mailed all Mullenistas and encouraged them to visit here. So when you see the names Larry O. Miller, Chardonnay and Oregon Pinot Noir you now know they are faithful electronic FOH (friends of Holly)!

Larry first e-mailed me years ago. He signed his name exactly like this: “Larry O. Miller (no, not THAT Larry Miller).” I’ve loved him ever since. He lives in Ventura County, California and loves to ski at Powder Mountain. He and his family are building an environmentally green home in the Ogden Valley about 70 miles from Salt Lake City.

Larry is an unabashed liberal. He joined his brother Paul, a Korean War veteran, last month at the March on the Pentagon to protest George W. Bush and his war policies. With Larry’s permission, I include a news story on the event, in which he and his brother play prominently. (Way to go with the 15 minutes of fame thing, Larry-O!)

Here is a photo Larry sent me, as well. He wondered if blog readers might be offended and gave me permission to decide. I told him I didn’t think so, but then, I’m a First Amendment purist. I appreciate anyone’s sensibilities, but if you don’t like this photo then feel free to sign out and turn the page.

To see Larry and a new friend, go here.

Finally, please go here for a thoughtful essay by my friend Chip Ward, recently retired assistant director of the downtown Salt Lake City Library. The same essay appears in the Los Angeles Times opinion section today.I saw Chip last week at a staff dinner of the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance (SUWA), where he serves on the board of directors with my husband, Ted. One of Chip’s greatest concerns has been the plight of the urban homeless. His essay cuts right to the heart of the matter.

We are home. Since 1 a.m. Monday. I’m sliding past jet lag, and battling “Delhi belly” (interestingly, I had no trouble until I got home to America’s ever-so-safe food and water supply).

I can provide you with a simple travel diary of 18 days in India — places visited, train schedules, a day at Parliament when members of the the ruling party rushed the well (speaker’s podium) and nearly led a brawl over a move to increase funds to a university they opposed. Oh, and there is my all-time favorite Indian meal, which I found myself eating in some form at every restaurant and home: dal (cooked black or yellow lentils delightfully spiced; a staple of the Indian table) and nan (bread). I like the combination at Indian restaurants in the U.S. but nothing, no way, can match the Indians’ preparation: utterly simple, yet complex enough in its spices to taste slightly different every time.

I’ll save some of that. Better today, as an introduction, I give you the eyes of Kotwara.

Two boys, dressed for their U. of U. guests:

A mother waits for medical attention from volunteers:

School children welcome their visitors with song:

Tyler wows the kids with digital:

Kotwara sits some 250 miles southeast of New Delhi, approachable either by astoundingly terrible Indian roads or by Northern Railway, which was our choice. Even then, after an all-night train ride from Delhi to Shajahanpur (named for the 17th-century mogul Shajahan, who built the Taj Mahal), it’s a two-hour bus ride to Kotwara.

The village sits among vast fields of sugar cane and wheat. The final approach is along a road bordered by dense forest, populated with small herds of spotted deer. The bus then rattles through the gate to the home of filmmaker, artist, and Sufi poet Muzaffar Ali,and his gifted wife, Meera, a fashion and textile designer and keen business woman.

Magnificent Muzaffar:

Lovely Meera:

Kotwara, a Muslim village, is Muzaffar’s ancestral home. His father, a prince, once reigned over the place. The government of India eventually came along, sliced up the land and left the Ali family 16 acres. On that land stands the Ali’s lovely home, lush gardens filled with rose bushes, cosmos and lavender, and towering mango trees. The village is 50 yards away.

In rural Mexico, Muzaffar would be known as the patron. In Kotwara, he employs dozens of villagers on his property and oversees an ongoing effort to educate their children at a small but sturdy stucco school, built over eight years time by University of Utah students as a service project over their school breaks.

We spent four days in Kotwara, and the stop couldn’t have been timed better. Our 21 students had been on a shopping frenzy, bartering with merchants in New Delhi’s colorful open air markets. It was grand, picking through silk scarves and jewel-toned saris, running our hands through stacks of Kashmiri pashminas and sampling masalas and mo mos from food booths. But a point comes when the noise, the infinite traffic jams, the bad air, the kitsch hawkers swarming the tourist havens take their toll. We needed a break. Most importantly, we needed to stop the take-take and start giving something to others.

That day came when the U. students walked into the village with scissors, water colors and paintbrushes, books describing flags of the world and the solar system, and even a lesson that included simulated snow. They taught wide-eyed children simple lessons. They led them in games of hokey-pokey and musical chairs (to the sounds of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” on an iPod with a speaker attached).

When education major Tracy Healey offered the grand finale — making polyethelyne “snow” with water mixed in a bucket — the kids went wild. They squealed, they stampeded. One kid even ate a mouthful.

Two days later Dr. Tom Byrne, a family practice physician from Nashua, New Hampshire, led the distribution of $2500 worth of vitamins to the children. Tom’s daughter, Elizabeth, is a U. of U. freshman. The two of them have made trips together on medical missions to Nicaragua. When Liz mentioned the trip to Tom, he signed on right away.

Dr. Tom Byrne, left, with Ted Wilson waiting in New Delhi for the train to Shajahanpur:

While discussing types of aid we might deliver, Tom suggested vitamins would make the greatest difference over a year in the children’s lives. The villagers’ diet consists mostly of rice, nan and lentils. Sorely lacking in protein, especially, the kids have in common stunted growth and chronic malnutrition. So each child took a 365-day supply home, with instructions in Hindi from Meera, our translator.

We had our worries. First, would the vitamins even make it home? Would the parents, busy scratching out a life each day and maybe suspicious of these Americans’ motives, even follow through with the regimen? Would the vitamins end up on the black market, fetching precious income for families subsisting a few rupees a day?

Ted, who has led seven trips to this region and oversaw the construction of the school with his former wife, Kathy, put the anxieties to rest.

“We do what we can,” he said. “We hope for the best.”