Just outside my house near Nova, Ohio, is a Johnny Appleseed tree in full blossom. “Not likely,” you’ll be thinking. “Everyone knows apple trees don’t last 190 years”. Well, mine did, and what’s more it gave seed to a whole avenue of Rambo trees that shade the path from my farm to the town.

That tree started to bring magic into my life before I was even aware of it. As with many babes before me, my first bath water was poured over its roots. They say my cheeks became rosy red from that day on, hence the name; Rosie, they call me. “She’ll be lonely without brothers and sisters,” they said. With my tree outside there was no fear of that. I played with the unicorn who lived underneath it and the flower fairies who came out at blossom time. They stayed until the wind blew them away in drifts of petals, and left me with the fruits to look forward to until they returned the following year.

As I grew, I still called upon the magical properties of the J.A. tree. My youthful infatuations were carved as hearts and intials on its apples and buried beside it as spells for loves which thankfully remained unrequited. But just imagine the scene last Halloween: a tea light, an apple sliced to expose the mystical star shape of its seeds, and me standing before my mirror as a charm to find true love. Sceptical though you may be, the next day brought a young man from Urbana. If you doubted that mine was the only original tree, take note that he had come to collect seeds for the Johnny Appleseed museum, and he won my heart as a bonus!

Now, as my wedding carriage leaves the tree, and moves slowly through the glade, the blossom petals fall like confetti. It is as if they spell out my thanks to the man who travelled hither and yon, wearing odd threadbare clothes and often without shoes, and who gave away some saplings to the poor farmer who was my great great grandfather.