Clarkias are very individualistic, coming as they do from a grand old California family of varied appearances and tastes. Some are white, some are yellow, some are red, some are purple, some fairly common, some rare, one or two endangered and one or two extinct. Their names attest to their local origins: Clarkia Presidio, Sierra, Springville, Vine Hill and Merced. One shy cousin has been spotted only in Feather River, another rests in peace under what is now Lake Oroville. Most are sunbathers who disport themselves on open grass or scrubland, but some prefer the woods.

The first Clarkian I tried to interview for this article got huffy when I mistook her for cousin rubicunda. She was a speciosa, she informed me, and the distinctions must be preserved. There have been hybridization scandals in the family nowadays. But at the recent CalIPC conference I met a much chattier bunch of the crowd known as Farewell to Spring.

"I may not look impressive in these latter days," one of them told me, carefully re-arranging her curly reddish leaves. "We bloom late in our family, but when we do bloom, we turn heads for miles around. We're famous for the Clarkia cotillions, when we all get together and turn the hillside violet. In my day, there were pollinators flying in so thick they made clouds of bees and butterflies. I'd have one or two on each petal, waiting for a chance."

"For weeks and weeks we flounced our flowers in the breeze. Every night our petals folded and we'd rest, but we were up with the sun and dancing as soon as the light came through the grasses to wake us with a little morning nip of dew."

"All that's gone, of course. Now the grasses are mostly dried and the fog has moved away inland and the only thing to see on the hillside is a primrose or two and some poppy. I don't mind. I have my little seeds around me and I love to watch them tumble about in the wind. I hope one or two will settle here and blossom and for the rest, Godspeed. It brings tears to my eyes just to think of it, but a mother's nature is generosity. Excuse me, you're in my light."

I stepped out of the way and she tippled a sunbeam as delicately as possible given her eagerness. There's a rubicunda," she said between sips, pointing to a little red blossom who glanced at her thirsty cousin and smirked.

"She can't get enough of the bright stuff. Not that I'm any better. We're late bloomers, you know. Those early-girlie types that criticize our habits are jealous, if you want the truth. They talk about us all summer. Why can't she pop a few seeds and settle down like us in a nice respectable blah blah blah. Hell with Śem. I've seen those lupins and tansies and buckwheat come and go. A couple drops of rain and they were out there flinging themselves around like dishrags, making a play for every bee and butterfly that came along. I bided my time, see. I was in flower when they were burned-out old shrews. And then you should have heard them. She'll come to no good, the rain will be gone, she'll be shriveled up before she can go to seed. Yeah, yeah. Hey, wake up, cuz. Didn't they talk about us all summer? Me, I got no regrets."

The amoena shook her head. "A person with deep emotions always has regrets. I suppose my worries aren't terribly important. My leaves get tangled now and then. I need light too much. If I were a little less of a light-girl I might have germinated in the lowland with the trees, where there's more culture in the soil."

"Trees!" scoffed the rubicunda. "They'd be a ton of fun. No cotillions there, I can tell you. You flower your heart out before they notice. Look at the size of the petals on those girls." She cast a pitying look at a couple of shade-loving cousins in a corner, who sent looks of pity back. "Those floppy flowers and the overgrown leaves. They look disgusting, if you ask me. Pass me some more of that light."

"I'm sure they've made the best of their natural endowments," Scarlet reproved her. "And the lowlands have the advantage of regular hydration."

"Water, that would be nice," the rubicunda conceded.

"A steady stream to burble you to sleep at night and bring home the nutrients every day. Not those droughts and deluges."

"Well, the droughts were rough, but‹"

"Stretching yourself out for all you're worth to catch a few drops of fog to close your petals on for the seeds." Scarlet blotted her eyes with a passing leaf.

"Hah! Stretching yourself to bring in the light, is more like it."

"I remember days when there wasn't a wisp‹"

"Come on. Think how you felt when the rains came pouring all over. Remember the first rain of winter? Wasn't it divine?"

"Oh mercy, yes. I'll never forget it."

"You wouldn't want some old tree there with its leaves in the way, watching over you. We weren't made for that life. Look at lingulata there. She's endangered now, but she wouldn't take woodland on a silver platter. Hey ling, what do you say? Rocky hillsides and the light make life worth living."

Farther down the bar, the lingulata winked.