At The American  Another in my seemingly endless series of
essays on the curse of certainty:  For relief, you may wish to
take this, with a couple of jiggers of good booze.   The
Apple Man  On a recent trip I paused in Fort Wayne, Indiana, to
visit the grave of John Chapman, known to generations as Johnny
Appleseed. As it happens, last Friday was his 240th birthday,
and I was reminded that back in 1974 I wrote a little piece
about him. It was never published (a story for another time)
and, as it has far surpassed Horace's advice that a writer lay
his work aside for seven years to see if it still seems
worthwhile, I offer it now.   Do you know about John Chapman,
who was called Appleseed John?  You probably know some of the
stories that are told about him: About how he wandered barefoot
in the forest, dressed in rags and wearing a tin pot for a hat;
about how he never harmed any living creature, not even a snake
or an insect; about how the Indians treated him as a holy man
because he was so gentle and odd; abo