It is apple season in the northern hemisphere, and the varieties of apples busshel-ing their way into markets are beautiful and bewildering; with names and reputations plucked straight from a fairy tale. I find the russet-and-yellow displays alluring. Their scents intoxicate me with the anticipation of a crisp, tart bite. I remember startling a door-to-door surveyor with the extensive types of apple I could list off: Royal Gala, Fuji, Braeburn, McIntosh, Granny Smith, Honeycrisp, Jonagold, Pink Lady, Jazz, and even the misleadingly called Red Delicious, to name a few. That is not to mention the less known but eccentrically named Hoople's Antique Gold, Scotch Dumpling, Queen Cox, and Flamenco (these I did not name).
It is during the height of apple harvest when Americans celebrate the birthday of one, Johnny Appleseed, on September 26th -- three days shy of Michaelmas.
Johnny Appleseed is an historical figure who has taken up a role in Americana much as a folk hero would. The descriptions of his character, his dress and life events, sound very much to me like a saint's hagiography. It's interesting therefore that even in the thoroughly Protestant former-British colony, the human collective mind raises figures of semi-mythological significance; a figure around whom to hinge their rhythms and traditions. This man, born Jonathan Chapman, was a missionary for The New Church (of the Swedenborgian persuasion), making the similarities of Johnny and the wandering, preaching hermit even more striking. In one oral tradition, Johnny was supposed to have healed a lame wolf, who afterwards became his constant companion -- a story sounding straight out of the life of Saint Francis of Assisi.
What Johnny Appleseed is most known for, however, is the tradition every American schoolchild can tell: that of the barefooted, scraggly-bearded, pan-hatted man, who walked the Midwest countryside planting apple seeds. He seems to me a kind of Green Man, or a Tom Bombadil, mysterious and benevolent. He is an emissary of nature, partway bridging the gap between the garden of Eden and fallen men. A spirit whose communion rekindles in us something of that early sanctifying grace. It is a fearful symmetry that the fruit responsible for our recollection is an apple.
I am no agriculturist, but edible apples, I am told by those who know better, are all clones. You get a good apple, you graft from the tree in order to get more good apples. Growing from the seed might get you something hard, deformed, or sour. Johnny had religious objections to grafting, so the seeds he planted were all genetically different -- wild and unique -- but not necessarily good for eating. What were good for? Cider. One imagines Johnny being heartily welcomed by pioneers thirsty for fortifying liquor. In this way, Johnny Applessed is an American saint who comes bearing drink, much as Saint Brigid of Ireland came bearing beer.*
By planting nurseries and leaving them in the care of others to raise into orchards, there is a bit of the Robin Hood flavour to Johnny as well, sharing wealth with the common folk, asking for naught in return but a floor to sleep on.
I am of the hearty belief that human beings sometimes transcend their individuality to step into an archetype of the universal story. Saints took these roles, bearing their lamps across many dark centuries, like beacons in a dark world. Saint Christopher is a type of Christ, carrying the weight of the world's sin over treacherous waters. Saint Brendan voyages to strange lands, scattering the seeds of the Gospel as the Master commanded.
Salvation history doesn't stand alone and far away, but draws near, intimate. It invites us mortals into the eternal story. Like a cosmic mystery play, we enter into these roles, for better or worse.
+JMJ+
Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash
* One of the more delightful tales of Brigid's hagioraphy is when she worked the miracle of turning bathwater into beer.
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