I am a horticulturist who works at a zoo, and this is often terribly humbling. Although the zoo where I work is also a botanical garden, and a damned good one (great plant collection, a beautiful tree canopy, colorful gardens, research, community work, conservation and Arbnet level IV accreditation), whenever I’m out and about in public wearing my zoo shirt I know full well what is going to happen.

The entry to the Cincinnati Zoo & Botanical Garden.

People will notice the zoo logo and ask, “Do you work at the Zoo?” I will answer, “Yes.” They will then exclaim, “That’s so awesome! What do you do?” hoping like hell that I do something amazing like teach baby cheetahs to run or talk in sign language with gorillas all day. But, instead, I will respond with the truth, which is, “Horticulture.” And then–most of them–will look kind of disappointed and/or confused and mutter, “That’s cool.”

Actually, to be fair, a number of folks will light up and  exclaim, “I love the gardens at the Zoo!” but it’s pretty obvious the majority would really rather I midwife rhinos through the birthing process and have an hour to regail them with tales of my adventures. 

Not that my adventures of having a hand in the planting of a beautiful, embracing tapestry of canopy, shrubs, grasses, perennials, annuals and more wouldn’t be fascinating, if anyone would ask.

I also believe that many people, maybe most, possibly all, do not really know what horticulture is. 

And that’s a problem. I’ve heard this issue discussed amongst top horticulturists in elite horticultural circles where a lot of brainpower was spent vainly trying to come up with a better word. In such conversations, by the way, it becomes clear that even many top horticulturists in elite horticultural circles do not, themselves, really know what horticulture is either. 

So here comes the inevitable, cliched dictionary definition: “Horticulture is the science and art of growing fruits, vegetables, flowers or ornamental plants.” 

Let’s break that down into its two parts. We’ll start with the back half first: “…growing fruits, vegetables, flowers, or ornamental plants.” The verb “growing” suggests the “act of growing,” not “allowing to grow.” Thus, growing in a “cultivated setting,” which is what? A garden or man-made landscape. So, boiled down, horticulture is the growing (planting and tending) of plants in a garden or developed landscape. Surely, that’s air tight. Definition done. Confusion over. Time to return to regularly scheduled programming. 

However, if it is therefore not the “allowing of plants to grow in natural ecosystems,” which I would guess would fall under “conservation,” where does the reintroduction of species or ecosystem restoration fall? Is that crossover? Overlap? Could be. And a source of confusion.

And what about agriculture? Growing fruits and vegetables on a larger scale? Is this horticulture? Most would say it isn’t, but where does one draw the line? A farm is a cultivated setting, right? Therefore, horticulture. But if you want to draw a line somewhere, where? When does a community vegetable garden become an urban farm and when does that become farming? And where does permaculture lie? Or hydroponics? Or aquaponics? 

Forestry? Urban forestry, a very probable yes. Falls under horticulture. But regular forestry would be a  hard no, right? But wait… What about reforestation? Someone has to grow the seedlings. That would be horticulture. And what about forest management? When does invasive plant removal and thinning and other such efforts turn a natural ecosystem into a cultivated one? 

You can see how drawing the lines of where horticulture begins and ends gets fuzzy fast and how the Venn diagrams quickly begin to look like a child’s first efforts with a Spirograph. 

So why is this important? It is because in some circles “horticulture” has become a dirty word, equated with shady mow and blow operations, sad landscape designs, the introduction of invasive species, and more, and, therefore, not a place to look for lessons that would inform best practices. Consequently, we see some malpractice: naturalists growing young plants in containers filled with real soil rather than potting mix because they’re convinced that the inclusion of natural micorrhiza is more important than proper aeration and drainage; urban forestry groups, thinking the numbers will somehow work out, planting thousands of 1-year bareroot seedlings doomed to deer predation and drought rather than a smaller number of large caliper trees; well-intentioned urban farmers dropping shanty towns of sticks, strings, and patched together hoophouses with last year’s tattered plastic flapping in the wind into neighborhoods that could use beauty just as much as broccoli; engineers, perhaps assuming horticulturists are just uneducated mud slingers, taking it upon themselves to spec adding sand to clay soil to “improve” drainage. These are just a few things I’ve seen, sometimes over and over. 

An urban farm I visited.

And the deer wait in the wings.

A much better solution.

The fact is, traditional horticulture has a lot to offer. No one knows how to grow plants better than nurseries and greenhouse growers. An experienced landscaper or arborist, if asked, will be happy to share how many small trees they planted that have survived versus larger ones (along with a pragmatic regimen for aftercare). A good designer, if consulted, can turn any community garden into something any community would be proud of. And this is just a handful of examples. 

The power of regular, established growers to grow any type of plants for any applications is proven.

A view at the zoo’s Rockdale Academy Urban Learning Garden.

Also at Rockdale, vegetables grown attractively and in a beautiful setting.

To finish, let’s go back to the first half of our definition of horticulture: “The art and science…” This is very important, because, for better or worse, anyone with a pickup and a wheelbarrow can call themselves a landscaper and, if they grow or tend flowers and veggies, I suppose, a horticulturist. Whether a person begins their career like that (as I did) or grinds their way to a PhD in Horticulture at Cornell, they must passionately pursue the art and science of their trade to be good, and that’s not easy. How many human beings are great at science? Some. And art? A few. At both? Fewer. 

And gardens and landscapes are not done in a vacuum either. The science is practiced within a torrent of variables. Variances in soils and plant cultural needs, climate and weather, pests and diseases, and a plethora of other crazy ass plagues and curveballs  are always showing up eager to wreak havoc. And what other artists work with media that grows, dies, and changes day to day throughout the year? 

Playing any part in the creation of beautiful, engaging, and ecologically beneficial spaces is a very noble cause.

What I’m saying here, I suppose, is that there is no better word for horticulture than horticulture. It is what it is, an umbrella term for all the subgenera within it–gardening, designing, growing, landscaping, urban farming, urban forestry, arboriculture, etc. I’m also saying that the world should acknowledge that doing horticulture well takes a lot of education, skill, and talent, and, therefore, it should be better respected. And professionals in horticulture should cultivate that by speaking up for themselves more. Within horticulture, the various groups should reach out to each other for the cross-expertise needed to achieve their common goal of successfully bringing more and better plantings to more and more places, particularly in urban areas.

And one last thing. Everyone in horticulture, including home garders,  look up from their labors once in a while to acquaint or  remind themselves of the nobility of their work. It is well documented that human beings depend on a connection with nature for our health and well-being. Look around you. In the urban and suburban environment, that connection is horticulture.