“A Seed and a Prayer: My Life as Johnny Appleseed”

What if I could interview Johnny Appleseed. This might be what he told me.

By John Chapman (as told from the great orchard beyond)

Most folks know me by a nickname—Johnny Appleseed—but I was born John Chapman on a September day in 1774, just before America declared her independence. I grew up on the edge of the frontier, in a land that was still wild and new. The world I knew wasn’t measured in highways and cities, but in river crossings, sunrise trails, and the rustle of deer in the brush.

Let me tell you a bit about the world I wandered and the trees I planted.

Life on the Edge of the Frontier

I set out in the early 1800s, barefoot more often than not, wearing a tin pot for a hat and carrying a leather satchel of apple seeds slung across my shoulder. America was expanding west, and the frontier line kept shifting. Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois were all part of the Northwest Territory—vast, untamed land where settlers were just beginning to arrive, clear forests, and build their homes.

I didn’t plant trees just for the love of apples, though I do love 'em. Back then, in the early 1800s, land claims were a tricky business. To make a legal claim in many areas, a settler needed to “improve” the land—and planting an orchard was considered one such improvement. So I got ahead of the settlers, walking miles ahead of the migration, planting apple nurseries near rivers and trails where I figured folks would someday settle.

Those weren’t sweet eating apples either. My seeds came from cider mills in Pennsylvania, meaning the apples were tart or bitter. But folks didn’t mind. They pressed them into hard cider, which was safer to drink than water in many places. I suppose you could say I helped quench a nation’s thirst, one tree at a time.

Living Light on the Land

Now, I wasn’t what you'd call rich. I traded seedlings for old clothes, food, or a place to sleep. Sometimes I slept out under the stars with just a blanket and a fire. I got along with Native American tribes in the region and respected the land as they did. Some of them even said I had been touched by the Great Spirit. Maybe it was because I never carried a gun, never chopped down a tree unless it was needed, and spoke gently to all living creatures—even bugs. Truth be told, I’d go out of my way to protect a snake or a bee if I came across one.

I was also a deeply religious man. I carried a Bible and tracts from Emanuel Swedenborg, a Swedish mystic whose writings I believed in. I'd hand them out like seeds, planting ideas along with apple trees.

Do My Trees Still Live?

Now, that’s a fine question. I passed from this world in 1845 near Fort Wayne, Indiana, after over 50 years of planting. Many of the trees I planted were seedlings, and they don't live as long as grafted apple trees. Most of them are gone now, due to old age, logging, or being replaced by more modern apple varieties.

But not all of them.

There’s one famous tree still standing in Nova, Ohio, believed to have been planted by my very own hand. It grows gnarly and weathered now—some folks call it "the last living Johnny Appleseed tree." It produces small, tart apples, just like the kind used in cider, and it's become a local legend. Botanists have studied it, and its genetics are distinct from modern varieties. Its survival is a testament to resilience.

Some of my old nursery sites are still known, and a few towns claim connection to me. Trees grown from the seeds of my trees still live, and others have been grafted to keep my varieties going.

So maybe my original orchards have faded with time, but the spirit of those trees lives on in every cider press, every child biting into a crisp apple, and every homesteader planting roots in new ground.

One More Thing Before I Go

People like to imagine me as a wandering saint of the wilderness, and maybe there's some truth in that. But I wasn’t a myth. I was just a man with a mission, believing that a better world could be grown, one small seed at a time.

So next time you enjoy a slice of apple pie or sip from a mug of cider, raise a thought for the trees—and maybe, just maybe, for the fellow who planted them with bare feet, a Bible in his hand, and a heart full of hope.