Johnny The Appleseed Boy

Here's an old favorite of mine. I wrote this long poem in the 1990s, when Bull and I owned a preschool, Moonwhistle School, in San Francisco. I wanted the Moonwhistle kids to know about Johnny Appleseed, so I tried to imagine him as a child.

Johnny, the Appleseed Boy

Mr. and Mrs. Doogitalong

were in love with the traveling life.

With a horse and a cart and a jig-a-jig song

they were happy as husband and wife.

They would ramble from pillar to parlor to post

making hats for the rich and the frisky.

The people would dine them on cinnamon toast,

apple pie, sweet potatoes and whiskey.

In a buckboard they jiggered all over the land

’til a little bird cautioned the missus,

“There's a tiny dear fellow, you'll soon understand,

needing homestead, and hearth song, and kisses.”

“Trade your house for our horse!” cried the Doogitalongs,

for their days on the road now were numbered.

And they worked up a passel of Mother Goose songs,

and they gave up the life unencumbered.

There were bunnies and blankies and booties and such

in a room with a moon in the window.

And the mom ate for two ’til her knees wouldn’t touch,

while the dad let a beard on his chin grow.

When at last he was there with his shock of red hair

and a smile like the first day of summer,

“Call him Johnny,” they said, “Oh, his eyebrows are red.

He’s so cute when he’s sucking his thumber!”

Well, that baby he grew! By the time he was two

he was making a ruckus at dinner.

If they gave him strained plums, he would twiddle his thumbs,

pinch his snorter, and sputter his grinner.

Even worse were tomatoes or smashed up potatoes,

he’d fling them all over the place.

So they tried possum stew and a puddin’ or two…

he just slapped ’em all over his face.

“This is it!” cried the mom, “here’s your last bowl of goo.”

And that baby, as usual, poured it

on his head, on the floor—Mama made for the door.

Johnny tasted ... he smiled ... he adored it!

“Gimme more!” Johnny chirped, “Gimme more more more more!”

and the mom, flying back, gladly gave it.

It was sweet applesauce that the boy clamored for,

and he ate, crying “Deesh um my favit!”

He ate warm apple muffins and hot apple stuffins

and pancakes with applesauce middles.

He had apple p’sketty and brown apple Betty,

jist nothin’ but apples for vittles!

When the young’un was three, at his grandmother’s knee

chomping down on a fat red Delicious,

Johnny saw something fall, something black, it was small.

He examined it, kinda suspicious.

“’Tis a seed,” said his Granny, “I know it’s uncanny,

but nature’s great myst’ry is in it.

Jist you coax it, my dear, you’ll grow apples right here.

We could plant it in less than a minute.”

So they raised up a shoot with a long, thirsty root,

and it grew side by side with its keeper.

Inch by inch both grew tall and, by gosh, every fall

there were apples yay-deep, sometimes deeper!

Now, young John was a schemer, a far-flung daydreamer—

(not once did his parents suspect’m).

With each apple’s pleasure, the seeds he would treasure,

he’d dry’m and then he’d collect’m.

To the attic he’d prance, apple seeds in his pants,

apple blossoms abloom in his fancy.

On a map he would roam over hills far from home

planting trees from West Floom to East Clancy.

When at last he was grown and his plans were full blown,

fump, fump, fump bumped a bag down the staircase.

Johnny loosened the knot, shouting “Look what I’ve got!”

Ma and Pa knew those seeds weren’t for their place.

 “Whoa now, Son!” pled the dad—it was Ma said, “I’m glad

Johnny’s got ’im a dream to go chasin’.

We were young once,” she said, “with the ground for our bed,

and that road for our dearest relation.”

“Johnny’s got in his heart the old feel of the cart,

plus an ear for the lore of a stranger.

It’s a vision, y'see, apple tree, apple tree!

There’s a sweet life, one not rife with danger.”

Johnny kissed them farewell, and he felt a tear swell,

his excitement all mixed up with sorrow.

With the seeds in his sack hanging over his back

Johnny leaned toward a red ripe tomorrow.