A Wish in the Wind

Victorian floriography

Dandelion

Taraxacum

Meaning:

Divination

Fortune-telling

1852

American frontier

The wagons creaked as the weary oxen plodded onward, their wheels trapped in the ruts carved by the hundreds that had passed before them on the vast American prairie. The wagon train stretched  across the rolling expanse of the Oregon Trail, each canvas-covered Conestoga holding the hopes and dreams of families seeking a better life.

Eight-year-old Eliza Mae Whitaker trudged alongside her family’s wagon, her small boots coated with dust, her mouth dry and hot. She was a small girl, with hair the color of chestnuts hanging in a braid down her back. Her pinafore, once crisp and white back in Missouri, now bore the stains of trail dust and berry juice.

Her father, Samuel, walked ahead, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the late afternoon sun. He held the whip to guide their oxen, his hat pulled low over eyes hardened by the strain of leading his family westward. Beside him, Eliza’s mother, Margaret, carried her brother, Josiah, his chubby cheeks rosy from the sun. Margaret’s once-delicate features were drawn tight with worry, her hands rough from the hard labor on the trail.

The land was untamed but beautiful. Sagebrush whispered in the wind, and the towering silhouettes of distant buttes stood like ancient sentinels. The sky stretched, endless and indifferent, painted with streaks of amber and violet as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

Eliza’s feet ached, but she knew better than to complain. Her eyes were drawn to the weeds and wildflowers that fringed the trail. She loved spotting the flashes of color amidst the monotony—purple lupine, golden arrowleaf balsamroot, and then, like a tiny cloud clinging stubbornly to the earth, a lone dandelion.

She stopped, her heart fluttering with delight. The plant stood defiant, its puffball crown of seeds trembling slightly in the breeze. A wish waiting to be made.

“Eliza Mae! Keep up, darling,” her mother called, not turning around.

Eliza hesitated, then darted from the trail, her small fingers reaching out to pluck the dandelion. It felt fragile in her hand. She held it close, staring at the delicate seeds poised like tiny parachutes, ready to take flight with a single breath. She hurried back to the wagon, shielding the dandelion as she ran.

Walking carefully behind her mother, she closed one eye, her heart whispering the words she couldn’t say aloud—not to her mother, not to her father, not even to herself most days. 

I wish… I wish Pa wasn’t so tired. I wish Mama would smile like she used to. I wish Josiah would stop coughing at night. I wish for a real home… somewhere we can be a happy family again.

Closing both eyes for a split second, and with a deep breath, Eliza blew. She opened her eyes in time to see the seeds dance away into the air, swirling like miniature spirits, caught by the evening breeze. She watched until the last one drifted out of sight, carried toward the distant horizon.

***

That night, the wagon train circled their wagons in the usual protective crescent, a crude fortress against the unknown darkness and what lay beyond. Campfires flickered, casting shadows that wavered like ghosts against the stretched canvas of the wagons. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the faint aroma of coffee, and Eliza’s stomach grumbled for more dinner. But food was scarce and she wouldn't ask for more. 

She nestled beside her mother beneath a thin wool blanket, listening to the sounds of the prairie—the soft lowing of oxen, the distant howl of a lone coyote, and the murmured voices of men standing watch. Her father’s voice rumbled low as he spoke with Mr. Jenkins, their neighbor on the trail, his words drifting on the night air.

"Weather's turning, Sam," Mr. Jenkins said. "We’ll need to make it across the Blue Mountains before the snow starts to fall."

Her father grunted in reply, the sound weary and resigned.

Eliza closed her eyes, clutching the memory of her wish. She imagined the dandelion seeds floating far ahead of them, paving the way to a place where her family could rest and food was plentiful.

***

As the days passed, the landscape shifted from dry plains to the rugged foothills of the Blue Mountains. The trail grew treacherous, riddled with sharp rocks and steep inclines that strained the wagons and wore on everyone's patience.

Eliza’s wish, fragile as it was, seemed forgotten amid the growing hardships. Josiah’s cough grew worse, rattling in his tiny chest. Her mother’s hands trembled from exhaustion, and her father’s whip struck the oxen more often, his face shadowed by worry.

Then, one afternoon, as they crested a ridge, the trail captain, Mr. Grady, raised his hand to halt the train. Eliza climbed into the wagon to see what had caught everyone’s attention.

There, spread out below them, was a lush valley-bright and golden, kissed by the sun. A river snaked through it, its waters sparkling like threads of silver. She could just see the last of summer’s wildflowers blooming in riots of color along the banks. Clusters of trees, their leaves starting to turn to brilliant shades of red and yellow, offered shelter that seemed to beckon the weary pioneers.

The valley was unmarked on their maps, a hidden pocket of paradise in the wilderness. Voices rose with excitement and plans were made to stay for the night. The men would discuss staying for the winter around the fire that night. Even Eliza could feel the nip in the air cutting through her thin dress and had heard her parents discussing going on or stopping. 

The next morning, as her mother cooked breakfast, Eliza wandered to the river’s edge. She crouched, her reflection wavy and distorted in the rippling current and she giggled at her funny-looking face. She hoped they could stay here forever. 

A soft breeze stirred the grasses, and there, nestled among them, was another dandelion—its white puffball halo catching the first rays of the sun.

And Eliza knew her wish had been carried on the wind, across miles of dust and hardship, to a place where her family could finally start building a future.

She didn’t pluck this dandelion.

She left it rooted in the soil, its seeds still holding the promise of wishes yet to be made.

Read about other settlers coming across the prairie many years later in Thistles on the Prairie.