Flour power and thread terror: My first Pioneer Days

There are a few emails in life that change you. College admissions. Job offers. And one from Brian Curtis — Vice President of the Davenport Road Knights — personally inviting you to ride in his 1948 Chevy Fleetmaster for the Pioneer Days Parade. That, dear readers, is what we in the industry call a hard yes. I didn’t even finish reading the message before I was mentally picking out my parade-day sunglasses.

With that, I handed over the Parade photography assignment to our newest reporter, Derek (bless him—he had no idea what he was walking into) and prepared myself for my first-ever Pioneer Days experience from the inside.

Now, I expected charm. I expected small-town spirit. What I did not expect was to be emotionally changed by a float covered in pickles and bratwurst. Let me explain.

Before the parade began, I wandered the streets of Davenport like any self-respecting local editor with a camera — snapping candids, exchanging hugs, and catching up with local queens. I visited the ever-radiant Alyx Scheller, Odessa’s queen of all things fabulous, and Davenport’s own Alyssa Breedlove, who looked like royalty on wheels. But my eye (and stomach) kept drifting toward Alyx’s Deutschesfest float, meticulously crafted by her grandmother Kerry and royalty organizer Sandi Smith. It had pickles. It had brats. It had gothic German lettering so authentic I started craving sauerkraut and questioned whether I was secretly Bavarian.

From there, I switched roles — trading camera clicks for candy tosses. I climbed into Brian’s shiny red Chevy, waved to the crowd, and prepared to live out every child’s dream: hurling sugary bribes from a moving vehicle. Seems simple, right? Open window. Open bags. Kids with outstretched arms. And me? Missing every single shot.

To clarify: I have decent hand-eye coordination… when it comes to typing. But it turns out, launching Tootsie Rolls with any accuracy is not my spiritual gift. Sorry to every child who got beaned in the knee or left hanging with a sad, empty grocery sack. Next time Janaye Wilkie hosts a Harrington basketball clinic at the school, someone sign me up. I’ll bring candy and shame.

Once the parade zoomed past in a blur of honking horns and squealing tires, I did what every self-respecting history nerd does after public humiliation — I went straight to the Lincoln County Museum. If you know me, you know it’s my happy place. I love everything about it. The outlaws, the antiques, the old newspapers that make me feel young again. It’s like walking into a time machine, only with better lighting and friendlier tour guides.

But this wasn’t just a casual museum day. This was Pioneer Day at the museum. Which meant one thing: I was going to try old-fashioned pioneer activities. And they were going to try me right back.

First stop: grinding flour with Tony Hein. Listen, I’m all for organic baking and living off the land, but five minutes into that shoulder workout and I was seeing stars. That machine doesn’t grind flour. It grinds egos. I’m convinced early settlers had the biceps of professional bodybuilders. FIT Gym should replace dumbbells with that flour grinder and call it “The Pioneer Pump.” You’ll cry, you’ll sweat, and then you’ll get a biscuit. Maybe.

Next, I headed upstairs to finally fulfill a dream I’ve had since covering the Odessa Quilt Show: learning to quilt. Let me just say... that dream died quickly. I sat down with the sweetest volunteer who handed me a needle, thread, and hope. Ten minutes in, and it looked like a spider had panicked on my fabric. I stitched something, but it sure wasn’t a quilt. I’ve seen toddlers do better with glue sticks. I may have created the world’s first Rat Rod Quilt— a Rat Rag — chaotic, uneven, and proud of it.

Undeterred (and clearly lacking self-awareness), I made my way to Laura Harris’ alpaca wool station. Laura was spinning like a pro while I tried to turn alpaca fluff into neat little fur balls. I don’t know what shampoo those alpacas use, but it’s smoother than my last breakup. 

By this point, I’d left perfection at the museum door—but with a smile and some momentum, I made my way to one final stop: the cursive class. I figured I’d ace this one. I took cursive in fourth grade. I was ready to shine. But as I looked around and saw elementary schoolers with penmanship better than mine, I considered faking a hand cramp and quietly exiting stage left.

And here’s the thing — sore shoulder, wonky quilt, and questionable candy aim aside — I had the absolute best day. I laughed, I learned, and I got to connect with so many incredible people keeping old-fashioned traditions alive with heart, humor, and grit. It was inspiring, it was joyful, and it reminded me exactly why I love this community so much.

I always assumed I’d thrive in pioneer times—my aunt back in Michigan used to say I had the attitude and hips of a stubborn frontier woman, and that the Harnack side is too tough to go out from anything less than a tornado. With most of my relatives living well into their 90s, it’s entirely possible this newspaper is stuck with me for another 70 years. But after just one day of living the pioneer life, I’ve realized something important: I wouldn’t be leading the wagon train—I’d be the one who accidentally sets the butter churn on fire and gets politely escorted off the prairie.

Still, I’d try again next year in a heartbeat.

Thank you to everyone who shared your talents, stories, and candy-throwing patience with me. You made my first Pioneer Days unforgettable—and I’ll be back next year, probably with a better throwing arm and definitely with thread untangled.