He wore coffee sacks for shirts, went barefoot through snow, and slept in the woods by choice. He is remembered not for conquering or ruling or inventing, but for planting trees—and for being kind. In America, that is rare.
Johnny Appleseed was real. His name was John Chapman, born in 1774 in Massachusetts, just as the first flickers of the American Revolution burned into view. He grew up in a nation being born and spent his life helping settle it, though not with guns or gold. His tools were a seed sack, a spade, and the gospel of Emanuel Swedenborg.
Swedenborgians believe that nature is a living mirror of the divine—that every flower, animal, and tree reflects God’s love if one knows how to see. Chapman took this seriously. He didn’t just plant apple seeds; he lived as though the world itself were holy ground. He refused to ride horses because it burdened them. He slept under the stars with raccoons as his companions. He scolded children who swatted mosquitoes. It wasn’t affectation—it was theology in motion. To Chapman, every creature had a soul, and every life, even a gnat’s, was part of a sacred web.
In this country, we’re not used to saintly figures wearing rags and preaching to squirrels. But Chapman’s eccentricity was not madness; it was commitment. He didn’t scatter seeds at random like the storybooks claim. He planted nurseries—fenced, marked, and cared-for plots of land—often in anticipation of westward expansion. In doing so, he staked claims under frontier law, returning later to tend or sell them. There was savvy in his holiness. He moved ahead of the pioneers like a botanical herald, ensuring that when settlers arrived, apple trees—and cider—were already waiting.
Ah yes, the cider. That’s another part of the story the children’s books leave out. Chapman’s apples weren’t for snacking. They were bitter and hard, perfect for pressing into hard cider, the frontier’s favorite drink. Water could kill you, but cider was safe and satisfying. His apples weren’t symbols of wholesome pie—they were agents of intoxication, cheer, and survival.
But perhaps what’s most astonishing is not what he planted, but how he is remembered. Kindness is not usually America’s preferred legacy. We lionize warriors, presidents, inventors, outlaws. But Chapman’s legend grew from gentleness. He was a vagabond saint, a barefoot mystic who saw God in the branches. In a culture that often values dominion over stewardship, Chapman reminds us that to wander with compassion, to live simply, to leave orchards in your wake—this too is a kind of greatness.
He died in 1845 near Fort Wayne, Indiana. His grave, like many of the orchards he left behind, is quietly unassuming. Many of his trees were later cut down during Prohibition—the government couldn’t abide such an abundant source of alcohol. But the myth persisted. Perhaps because we need it.
In every culture, there are stories of wise fools, gentle prophets, those who speak to animals and walk barefoot through the world. Ours has Johnny Appleseed. And in this moment of pavement and noise, it is oddly comforting to think that once, a man wandered the wilds of America—planting, praying, and living as though every tree were a temple.