This Beekeeper is Sweet on City Streets

Jean-Claude Bourrut is big into the social network. No, not that social network. Bees are his buzz of choice. He has been beekeeping for 20 years now. “When you fall into social insects, you’re hooked,” he says unapologetically. But do not for a heartbeat picture Bourrut as a Lone Ranger on the bee list. Do not imagine him in a white hat, white gloves, and veil, communing only with his colonies out in farm country. Because Jean-Claude Bourrut is an urban and suburban beekeeper. What he does has everything to do with cross pollination with kindred spirits of the two-legged kind.

You might say that Jean-Claude Bourrut stumbled upon his honey. In the early 1990s, he arrived for one of his first days at a new job. During the orientation process, someone pointed in the direction of some hives and told him that those industrious little pollinators would be his coworkers. Not only would their health, welfare, and pursuit of happiness fall under his jurisdiction, but he was also responsible for collecting the benefits of their labors. And that sweetened the deal. The previous beekeeper gave him the five-minute spiel, handed him his bee smoker, and waved goodbye. “Basically, I had no mentor,” Bourrut says, explaining how he got his hum. “I read books, which led me on many wrong paths. That’s why I teach beekeeping classes to make up for the sense of community I lacked.” And that brought Bourrut to his current initiative of touching antennae through Meetup and Google groups.

There’s nothing new about beekeepers foraging for a sense of community, but where this particular beekeeper has communed with his bugs is rather novel. When you imagine Jean-Claude Bourrut with his bees and fellow beekeepers, do not picture the wild blue yonder. Right now, the majority of Bourrut’s hives are at the Boston Nature Center in the Mattapan neighborhood of the city. In addition, he manages hives at the Natick Community Organic Farm, a teaching farm in Natick, Massachusetts, where they are just one component in a diversified configuration that includes greenhouses and maple syruping facilities, along with vegetable production and raising animals for milk, wool, and meat. Although the Natick farm is spread over 27 acres, suburban sprawl skirts the property on all sides. Those two locations are where he is operating right now, but Jean-Claude’s bees have followed him wherever he went. In other words, his apiary has resided everywhere from Mattapan to Long Island in the middle of Boston Harbor. He makes no apologies for housing his bees where pavement predominates–the urban setting is where this beekeeper is most at home.

Jean-Claude Bourrut is one of a growing number of beekeepers whose bees make their propolis in a metropolis. More than being a citified beekeeper housing his industrious little buddies when he was not associated with a farm, Bourrut is a strong advocate and instructor dedicated to helping the newly hatching community of urban beekeepers take flight. Ask Jean-Claude where he’d rather keep bees, and without batting an eyelash, he will make a beeline to an urban setting.

Jean-Claude insists that the urban buzz is the way to go. “In the suburbs, there’s a monocrop of lawn,” he explains. Not only do you have large expanses of grass, but suburbanites tend to apply herbicides to their lawns. Bees bring those herbicides back to their colonies.” It is Jean-Claude’s theory that chemical exposure is one factor in the litany of environmental dangers that  don’t bode well for bees.

So, what is the advantage of city dwelling from a honeybee’s perspective? True, green oases might be few and far between in metropolitan settings, but fodder definitely exists all over. “In the city, people tend to grow flowers in their green spaces,” Bourrut says. And flowers spell food for a bee. Plus, bees’ foraging is not limited to what you can grow to attract them to your property. “Bees fly in a two-mile radius,” Bourrut explains. He feels certain that they will roam as far as five miles if necessary, picking up pollen from the dandelions, chickweed, and white clover that loiter in vacant lots. Nobody is grooming that land with chemicals. Plus, annual and perennial plants are only part of the picture from a pollinator’s point of view. Flowering street trees are a mainstay for pollen, especially maple blossoms, linden flowers, and willow catkins that you scarcely notice in early spring.

Granted, outfitting for an urban setting can be dicey for beekeepers because every one of Bourrut’s little buzzing buddies comes equipped with a nasty stinger. Although honeybees are not generally aggressive compared to wasps and hornets, they defend themselves when necessary. Bourrut suggests a few rules (see the sidebar on page 87) that might help bees stay out of mischief in urban areas. As for Bourrut, he blithely takes the “no fear” approach when working with his bees. He is an absolute proponent of wearing a veil, but he prefers to work with his bare hands rather than don gloves. “When I’m totally protected, I work faster and there’s the potential to make more mistakes. Without gloves, I go much slower and I’m more in tune with the hive.” It is a Zen thing. Meanwhile, his young daughter, Ariane, has been keeping bees alongside the maestro since she was six years old and has reached a comfort level that allows her to go gloveless. Many of her summer weekends are spent working beside her father.

Bourrut takes an organic route to his honey. His chosen methods for preventing bee diseases have more to do with sanitary management and less about medication. Plus, locally-raised bees tend to have the genetic pool that allows them to survive the local climate. So shopping regionally also pertains to acquiring queens. He does not use foundation, letting the bees build their own honeycomb. And he never extracts honey on a colony’s first year, but waits until the second year to harvest, leaving plenty of honey for the hive’s survival over the winter.

As for fodder, he is all for growing your own flower field, with the knowledge that the bees will also access what’s available further afield. Keep in mind that honeybees are infinitely efficient. Because they only carry the harvest from a single type of flower back to the hive on each trip (that eccentricity explains why they are prized as pollinators), they dote on dense stands of mint, clover, or whatever. Those dandelions covering a vacant lot look like the Promised Land from a troupe of roving bees’ perspective. The shorter the distance between hive and fodder, the happier the honeybee. In the city, where vacant lots are on almost every other block, they will not have to fly far to find food. Bourrut’s advice is, by all means, plant some agastache, salvia, bee balm, and sedum for the bees, but do not worry about trying to grow a hive’s entire diet.

Bourrut will gladly explain the ropes to anyone even vaguely interested. “No one helped me get started,” he explains, “so now I offer advice, whether you want it or not.” He has become something of a local master of ceremonies for the honey crowd, serving as one of the moving forces to get a Boston-area-based Tour de Hive up and flying. That event profiles visits to several apiaries in Mattapan, Cambridge, and Somerville via bicycle or any other mode of transportation attendees care to hop. He teaches beekeeping classes through NOFA (Northeast Organic Farmers Association) as well as at the Natick Community Organic Farm. Plus, he monitors local bee forums and helps potential beekeepers find their way to bee clubs that can help with the expense of equipment and honey extractor rentals.

If the city sometimes feels like a beehive of activity, Jean-Claude Bourrut is all for encouraging that metaphor to fly. Boston has the potential, and the dandelions, plus there is sufficient space and plenty of folks who like the sweet life. Now all you have got to do is get the hum.

Color rocks the garden each fall—wild yellow, demure purple, screaming red and orange, and quiet green. In coastal New England, nature creates this rush of splendid hues before the onset of winter white. “This part of the world is well- known for its autumn display,” says TV’s gentlemanly garden guru, P. Allen Smith, whom I met at an event that bore his name in Loudon, New Hampshire. “I like to add plants that bring contrast to the oranges and yellows of fall foliage.”

In my garden, those contrasts come from the leaves of deciduous trees and shrubs. Plants that were leafy green in spring and summer turn brilliant red and purple, standing out against orange, yellow, and some still-green leaves. More fall colors abound: white pine’s blue-green needles form a backdrop for the russet leaves of bald cypress (Taxodium distichum), a deciduous conifer, while the brown leaves of pin oak (Quercus palustris) stand aside for its gaudier kin, the scarlet oak (Quercus coccinea).

In a great year for color, trees and shrubs have fiery brilliance. Even trees that are typically dull can look lively. In one of those grand years, a narrow ‘Dawyck’ European beech (Fagus sylvatica ‘Dawyck’), usually bronzy in fall, can become a noble column of gold.

The United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) explains why autumn hues can change from year to year. Of the three factors having a bearing on fall color—weather, leaf pigments, and length of night—only the latter does not change. Longer cooler nights and shorter days set off biochemical processes that lead to color change in the leaves of deciduous trees. Of course weather conditions, including the amount of rainfall, differ from year to year, which is one reason why fall color varies. According to the USDA, the most spectacular fall color comes after a “warm wet spring, favorable summer weather, and warm sunny fall days with cool nights.”

But leaves are just the beginning of autumnal delights. See how daylight shines on the bedazzling fall fruits of trees and shrubs. Some glisten hot pink (Sorbus alnifolia), while others are purple (Callicarpa spp.), shrimp-orange to gold (Ilex verticillata ‘Winter Gold’), scarlet (Viburnum setigerum), and burnished red (Aronia arbutifolia ‘Brilliantissima’).

In addition to the rosy fall flowers on paniculate hydrangeas, you can see blooms on more unusual plants. At the end of October and at times into November, perfect white flowers are still opening on my shrubby Franklinia against its purpled red fall leaves. And the seven-son flower tree (Heptacodium miconioides), which produces pretty white flower clusters in September, looks positively vampish after the blossoms fade. That’s when rose-red sepals—those little flower parts under the petals that once protected buds—look like wannabe-blooms that cover the canopy into late autumn.

Such fine fall displays extend your garden’s appeal in a New England growing season that is relatively short. Many homeowners focus on bulbs and flowering trees for spring, followed by a late spring to early summer peak of perennials without giving fall much thought. Their attention is turned toward the ground.

Fall is different. You have to look up for the full picture, beyond the confines of a yard. Big old overstory trees tie a neighborhood together, particularly in fall, and you can repeat some of these species or colors when you plant your garden trees. My autumn kicks off when native white ashes (Fraxinus americana), the original and tallest trees in the yard, turn clear yellow. Yet the big trees in my neighbors’ yards are just as vital to my views and my fall landscape as the trees near my house. The most exciting gardens I know fuse personal space with the natural landscape by means of trees chosen for scale and multiple seasons of interest.

Think about fall attributes when deciding which trees and shrubs to plant. As a starting point, here are some suggestions.

For trees with red fall color and more than one season of interest, consider sourwood (Oxydendron arboreum), red maple (Acer rubrum), sugar maple (Acer saccharum), kousa dogwood (Cornus kousa), stewartia (Stewartia pseudocamellia), and franklinia (Franklinia alatamaha).

Shrubs with red or red-orange fall color include sumac (Rhus spp.), chokeberry (Aronia arbutifolia and Aronia melanocarpa), cutleaf fullmoon maple (Acer japonicum ‘Aconitifolium’), witch alder (Fothergilla spp.), and redvein enkianthus (Enkianthus campanulatus).

If you want a tree with terrific yellow fall color, try ginkgo (Ginkgo biloba), European larch (Larix decidua), birch (Betula spp.), golden European ash (Fraxinus excelsior ‘Aurea’), and sassafras (Sassafras albidum). Shrubs with yellow fall color include bottlebrush buckeye (Aesculus parviflora), Chinese allspice (Sinocalycanthus chinensis), clethra (Clethra alnifolia), witch hazel (Hamamelis spp.), and spicebush (Lindera benzoin).

Some deciduous shrubs with outstanding fall fruits are tea viburnum (Viburnum setigerum), winterberry (Ilex verticillata), Korean mountain ash (Sorbus alnifolia), and red chokeberry (Aronia arbutifolia).

The Art of Scanning

To obtain the striking images in this story, photographer Kerry Michaels visited my garden in mid-October 2010 and collected numerous leaf samples. She bagged and labeled the samples, then drove them back to her home in Maine, where she scanned the leaves. Kerry worked late at night using a darkroom in a box that she had erected over the scanner. “In a camera, you can change the focus, but in a scanner you cannot, so anything not touching the glass is out of focus,” she says, adding that proper setup is crucial to her technique. Because leaves are three dimensional, Kerry uses tiny pebbles and paper clips to weigh them down and keeps the scanner open to prevent squishing them. She also needed to scan the leaves quickly, while they were still fresh. “It’s amazing how fast leaves start to lose their suppleness and color,” she says. “It’s important to scan live things right at their peak.”

Prairie Princess With A Whole New Look

Left: Photography Zina Seletskaya /www.shutterstock.com.  | Center: When in bloom, award-winning ‘Magnus’ purple coneflower attracts butterflies and bees, while the mature cones provide food for birds. Photography courtesy of  vanberkumnursery.com. | Right: Sunrise’ has dark gold cones and yellow petals fading to cream. | Photography courtesy of provenwinners.com.

What trendy bloom can look like a geek with a mullet or a wilted lavender daisy thirsting for a drink? Purple coneflower, of course!

These are the glory days of purple coneflower, also known by its scientific name, Echinacea purpurea. On the one hand, this old-fashioned, long-blooming wildflower has become a popular remedy for boosting the immune system in the form of teas, tinctures, and tablets. On the other, Echinacea is the subject of modern breeding programs around the country, resulting in trendy garden flowers ranging in color from traditional lavender pink, white, and rosy pink to yellow, salmon, orange, green, and red. Plant heights vary from 'Little Annie', a 10-inch pink dwarf, to wild specimens up to 6 feet tall, although most cultivars grow between 2 and 4 feet high.

Gardeners love this clump-forming native perennial because it attracts bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds and because of its unique appearance—it has drooping lavender pink rays set around a prickly, purplish brown floral cone. Purple coneflower originated in prairies, thickets, and open woods in the Midwestern and southeastern United States. In fact, Echinacea's name comes from echinos, the Greek word for hedgehog, referring to its spiny central disk.

In its native form, purple coneflower may look wilted at first glance. "People who don't know about plants say, 'Oh, that plant must need water because the petals are drooping down,' " says Leslie van Berkum, co-owner of Van Berkum Nursery, a wholesale business in Deerfield, New Hampshire. As a result, "many new cultivars have petals standing up." Yet van Berkum thinks that hybridizers sometimes push too far in their desire to change the original plant. "I think it jeopardizes the essence of the native plant in its wild state," she says.

Not only do breeders change flower color and plant size, they can also change the shape of the blooms. With Echinacea, that means turning downward petals into horizontal, daisy-like rays or, more drastically, transforming the central cone into a big mound of tiny petals surrounded by long pink rays. A popular pompom cultivar is bright purplish pink 'Razzmatazz', which resembles a head with a shaggy mullet. "It reminds me of a bad haircut," says Dana M. Sansom, associate professor of horticulture at the University of New Hampshire in Durham.

E. purpurea 'Magnus', however, is a classic cultivar that became the Perennial Plant Association's 1998 plant of the year. 'Magnus' has non-droopy, deep rosy pink flowers on 2- to 4-foot sturdy stems. 'Rubenstern' or Ruby Star is an improved version of 'Magnus' with rich carmine, horizontal petals around a central cone. At the odd end of the spectrum is E. purpurea 'Green Envy', which has a green-centered, blackish cone surrounded by petals that are lime green at the tips and pink near the base.

Echinacea produces flowers from roughly June through September atop sturdy stems that are good for cutting. When arranging a bouquet or centerpiece, consider using different cultivars of purple coneflower. For a casual bouquet, mix pink, orange, or yellow blooms with ornamental grasses and prairie flowers such as blazing star (Liatris) and black-eyed Susan (Rudbeckia). White Echinacea cultivars such as 'Cygnet White' or 'White Swan' look elegant and harmonious when combined with green and white leaves and flowers, including variegated hosta and Hydrangea paniculata 'Little Lamb'.

While most folks grow Echinacea for its striking blooms, some grow these plants for the cones. "Many people use the naked cones in bouquets and dried arrangements," Sansom says. "To do that, harvest (the cones) for drying after the flowers have gone by. Remove the petals, and put the stems in a vase to dry or hang upside down in a cool dry place."

Incorporating Echinacea into your garden is easy, according to Sansom. "It depends on the size of the garden," she says. "In a small garden, one plant can be fine, but in medium to large gardens a minimum of three plants looks better. Try them massed next to grasses for a nice contrast of heights and textures." Sansom also says that the blue green leaves of Baptisia look attractive next to purple coneflowers. Other handsome companions include Big Ears lamb's ear (Stachys 'Big Ears') with its soft silvery leaves and few flowers, lemon yellow daylilies (Hemerocallis), and various sea hollies (Eryngium) with striking spiny flower bracts and lobed leaves.

"I designed a garden for my sister-in-law that you can see from the top of a slope," Sansom says. "I used 'Magnus' there so she could really see the flowers when she looked down on the garden."

Many of Van Berkum's clients want meadow gardens. "For that you need grasses and plants like Echinacea that take dry conditions, full sun, and well drained, not super rich soil. To me coneflowers are not pretty as specimen plants. I'd rather see them in an informal setting. Let them seed into well-drained soil. After they're rooted in, let them go."

When planting purple coneflower, choose a site with excellent drainage, since it will not abide wet feet. "It's a prairie wildflower," says van Berkum, who notes that these plants last longer when you meet their cultural requirements. "Water to root them in and let them dry out between waterings."

As for maintenance, Echinacea purpurea is relatively carefree. To propagate the species, sow seed or divide. Many hybrids are sterile or do not come true from seed, but you can divide them for personal use. Since hybrids may be fussy and hard to establish, pinch off their flower buds the first year for more branching and vigor at the base.

"Echinacea really needs full sun and no fertilizer besides the regular organic matter in the soil," Sansom says. "Giving it fertilizer can make the plant weak; then it may need staking. It may bloom a little longer if you deadhead old flowers, but it's not necessary. I like to see purple coneflowers go through their whole life cycle."