A Wish in the Wind
Victorian floriography
Dandelion
Taraxacum
Meaning:
Divination
Fortune-telling
1852
American frontier
"Eliza Mae, hurry up," her mother called, glancing back to where Eliza dawdled behind the wagon.
Eliza had spotted a bee—its tiny, golden body buzzing around a wildflower that had taken root on the edge of the trail. It was a trail cut deep into the prairie by the heavy wheels of the wagons ahead, and now the flowers had begun to reclaim the edges.
Eight-year-old Eliza Mae Whitaker was a pioneer girl—and a tired one. Her feet ached. Her hands were dirty, and her stomach rumbled more often than not. Dust clung to every inch of her, and she could feel the sweat trickling down her back under the unrelenting sun. Most days since they’d left their home in the lush Tennessee River Valley, she felt confused, hot, and sad.
Her father, once a farmer in the green valley nestled between the misty blue ridges of Tennessee, had heard tales of the West. Land—free land, they’d said. “Pick your spot and stay,” he’d told them. “Room to breathe. No neighbors for miles.”
But Eliza missed the trees. She missed the foxes and finches, the soft moss underfoot, and the way the forest always seemed to hum with life. Out here, everything was dry and vast and empty. Neighbors on the wagon train bickered, and fear hung heavy—fear of running out of food, fear of accidents, fear of attacks from unseen enemies.
And then there was Josiah.
Her younger brother had fallen ill days ago. Once her constant companion and playmate, he now lay in the back of their wagon, too weak to lift his head. Her mother kept Eliza close now. She wasn’t allowed to walk with the other children—not since a boy had fallen under a wagon wheel early in the journey. He’d been killed instantly. From then on, her mother had never let Eliza out of her sight.
“Eliza,” her mother warned again. The bee was forgotten. Eliza ran to catch up, ignoring the growling in her belly.
Her mother reached out and gently touched her father’s arm. Her voice was low, but Eliza could hear the worry in it. “He’s burning up.”
Her father cracked the reins. “I know. But how are we supposed to get the doctor? He’s riding ahead.”
“Maybe Eliza could run and get him?” her mother whispered.
Eliza perked up. She could help. She could—
“No,” her father interrupted. “I’ll have one of the scouts or the patrols fetch him when they ride past. Eliza’s not running off and getting herself hurt.”
“Stay close now,” her mother said firmly.
Eliza trudged alongside the wagon, kicking up dust with her already-worn shoes. She worried about her brother and wished she could help. She wondered when they would reach their new home in this never-ending journey.
No scouts passed that day. No one came to help.
That night, when the wagon train finally stopped and made camp, Eliza ate a small bowl of beans and a hunk of hardtack. She wished it were slathered in butter and honey, washed down with cold milk from the cow they’d had to sell before leaving Tennessee.
The doctor examined Josiah and spoke in hushed tones to her parents. Eliza watched the worried lines deepen on their faces. She didn’t dare ask what the doctor had said.
Later, her parents went to the nightly meeting, leaving Eliza to sit beside her brother in the wagon. She curled up next to him and was shocked by how hot he was—like the sun lived inside him.
“Josiah,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder. “Josiah, it’s me. Lizzie.”
He didn’t stir.
Panic rose. Eliza jumped from the wagon, found a cloth, and dashed up the train to fetch water. She soaked the rag and hurried back.
Her mother spotted her returning. “Eliza! Where have you been? You know there are wild animals out there!”
“I just… I just wanted to cool his forehead,” Eliza stammered. “He feels so hot.”
Her father placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “She’s only trying to help.”
Her mother’s voice cracked. “Well, I don’t want to lose both of them.” She turned away.
Eliza stayed quiet. She had learned that arguments came often out here. Her mother and father, who once laughed and played and danced with her and Josiah, now wore worry like cloaks. Their clothes hung loose. Their smiles came rarely—if at all.
That night, lying beside her brother with the damp cloth folded on his brow, Eliza heard her parents’ whispers through the wagon slats.
“Where even is this Utah territory?” her mother asked, voice tight. “I thought we were stopping before the mountains.”
“We were,” her father said. “But there’s good farmland in Utah. It’s supposed to be as good as any in Tennessee.”
“You sound like a fool,” her mother snapped. “I say we stop before. Winter is coming fast. We can’t go over those mountains with Josiah so sick. We need to stop and get help. Now.”
“We have to stay with the wagon train,” he said. “The doctor will help.”
Eliza closed her eyes and listened as her mother wept quietly. Her father murmured something soft, and the wagon fell into stillness again.
When she woke the next morning, Josiah was still hot—hotter, maybe. Her stomach twisted with fear.
As they prepared to move again, Eliza dared to ask her mother, “Is Josiah going to die?”
Her mother froze. “What makes you say that?”
“He doesn’t move. I can barely hear him breathe.”
Her mother gasped and climbed into the wagon. “Josiah?” she whispered. “Josiah, baby?”
A tiny groan answered.
Eliza exhaled shakily.
“Don’t scare me like that, Lizzie,” her mother muttered. “He’s sick, not dead.”
“Is he going to die?” Eliza asked again.
Her mother looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “How would I know that?” she snapped.
Eliza blinked back tears at her mother's reprimand. Ever since leaving home, her parents had changed into people she barely recognized. Gone were the mother who chased butterflies and squealed at frogs, and the father who came in from the fields with a big grin and muddy boots.
Now, all they did was fight and worry and walk and work.
That afternoon, as they crossed another endless stretch of prairie, Eliza spotted something white and soft on the side of the trail.
A dandelion.
Heart racing, she glanced to make sure her mother wasn’t watching and darted to the side of the wagon. She plucked the delicate flower and cradled it against her chest so the wind wouldn’t scatter its seeds.
“Eliza, get back here!”
“I’m coming,” she called, hurrying back.
“What is that you have?” her mother asked.
“A dandelion,” Eliza said. “I’m going to make a wish.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.”
But Eliza didn’t care. She had a mission now: protect the dandelion at all costs. She clutched it all afternoon, all evening, keeping it safe until they stopped.
That night’s camp was near a river. A tall cottonwood tree stood nearby, and Eliza asked her mother, “May I go sit under it? Just for a little while?”
Her mother, tired and distracted, nodded. “Be back before dinner.”
Eliza ran to the tree, dandelion still pressed to her heart. She sat beneath the rustling leaves, closed her eyes, and whispered:
“I wish Josiah will get better. I wish Mama and Daddy will be happy again. And I wish the place we’re going will be just as pretty as Tennessee.”
She screwed her eyes shut and blew with all her might. Just then, a breeze rushed through the cottonwood, catching the seeds and lifting them into the air. They spun and danced, glimmering in the golden light.
She didn’t know if it would work. She just hoped.
***
In the days that followed, Josiah’s fever broke.
The doctor checked on him daily and gave him medicine. Bit by bit, Josiah returned to her. He ate a little softened hardtack. He sat up. He smiled. Eventually, he walked again, holding her hand as they trudged onward.
Her parents, too, began to soften. Her mother smiled again—just a little—and sometimes sang when the mood took her. Her father put his arm around her mother’s shoulders at night. Their words were still tense, but less bitter. And every so often, they even laughed.
The land around them changed. Wildflowers returned. Trees dotted the distance. Someone called it Colorado.
Her parents began talking about where the garden would go, where the barn might stand. They spoke of planting and building and staying put.
Eliza looked at Josiah, walking beside her with his cheeks pinked by health, and knew:
Two of her wishes had come true.
And in her little eight-year-old heart, she believed the third would, too.
Because sometimes, if you hold on long enough…wishes do come true.
Pioneers traveling West
Teacake Tidbits
1. 1852 Was the Busiest Year on the Oregon Trail
Over 50,000 emigrants traveled west on the Oregon Trail in 1852—the highest number in a single year. The promise of fertile farmland in Oregon, new opportunities in California, and the recent Gold Rush encouraged thousands of families to pack their belongings into wagons and head west. This massive migration placed immense pressure on trails, ferries, and limited resources along the way.
2. Cholera Was the Leading Cause of Death on the Trail
In 1852, a deadly outbreak of Asiatic cholera spread along the Platte River corridor—a common route on the trail—causing thousands of deaths. The disease was highly contagious and moved rapidly through camps due to poor sanitation and contaminated water. It’s estimated that 1 in 17 emigrants died on the journey, with cholera accounting for the vast majority of those deaths.
3. Oxen Were Preferred Over Horses for Pulling Wagons
While some pioneers began their journey with horses or mules, by 1852 most wagon trains relied on oxen. Oxen were slower but far more durable and better suited to pulling heavy loads across rough terrain. They also recovered better from limited food and water and were less likely to be stolen by raiders—especially since Native tribes often preferred horses.
Read about other settlers coming across the prairie many years later in Thistles on the Prairie.
