Four O'Clocks

I had a flower garden. In late winter, my father would take me to the greenhouses at the university where he was a professor of botany, and we would plant seeds of the annual flowers that I would fill my garden. At the greenhouse there was wonderful, rich, clean potting soil, with which we filled flat, round pots. Very carefully, I spread out the seeds on the soil and then sprinkled on another thin layer of soil and watered the pots thoroughly. When we were finished, we set the pots out in the greenhouse, alongside seedlings and plants belonging to students or professors. 


Some weeks later I would go with my father again, and we would gently transplant the 2-inch high seedlings - marigolds, four o'clocks, zinnias, petunias, and more - into individual pots. In late spring my father would bring home the seedling,s and I would start to plant my garden. 

Four O'Clocks
by Nemo's Great Uncle

I especially remember the four o'clocks. I planted them beside the house, and by early summer the plants were two feet high and filled with bright blossoms - pink and white and yellow and red - blooms that opened in mid-day and closed again in the evening. It always bothered me that they were called four o'clocks - they didn't bloom right at four o'clock! They bloomed much longer, often starting earlier in the day and lasting well past four pm. My father had an explanation, which I had, of course forgotten. Now I learn that it is the change in temperature, not sunlight, that determines the flowers' bloom time. This fact of science didn't stick in my memory, but the images of the colorful masses of flowers below the front windows have remained with me.  


Because the four o'clocks close each evening, these were not the flowers for cutting and putting in vases; these remained outdoors, connected to stems and roots, only to be seen when coming or going, or just being outdoors.

Four O'Clocks
by Wallygrom

Why did I love those flowers so much? Their misbegotten name was surely part of it, their riot of colors, their insistence on being left where they were growing and not transported indoors to give brief enjoyment and then fade and die, the alluring pictures in the Burpee catalog, the moments alone with my father in the greenhouse, the flowers' spot beside the house, the height they grew to from those tiny seeds; the knowledge that they would without fail grow and thrive and bloom. 


A medley of bright, ephemeral colors, symbol of joy and cheer and hope.

Southern Spring

Soon
I will borrow
a bow saw
to trim the yews
that run my yard,
and soon
I will hunt stakes
to brace my plants,
but now
I must sit
in the shade
and watch
the four-o’clocks grow.

--James Donahoe

My garden now grows perennials only - in my busy life I need plants that will return each year on their own, without my help of seed planting. And when the first frost of autumn cuts short the last of the flowers' colorful display, their memory holds me through the shortening days until the new year brings tax forms and seed catalogs and visions of the richness of summertime.


I have learned that four o'clocks have tubers that can survive some winters. The bitter cold winters of my Wisconsin childhood were too much for them, but perhaps here in southern New England, the story will be different. I must try.

The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. (Song of Songs 2:12)

P.S. The poem above came from the website of Four-O'Clock Flowers Around the World Cancer Memorial. I sent an envelope to get four o'clock seeds from them, and you can, too. They ask you to plant the seeds as a symbol of hope. I will plant these seeds in memory of my cousin, Trynka, and my aunt, Lorraine, both of whom died of cancer.