4/22/08

Blueberry Hills Farms: A Must- Visit Place While at Lake Chelan

I always research everything about an area before we ever take a trip. It drives JEJ a bit crazy as I am taking notes, reading books, and searching online before we ever get away from home! I came across the website of Blueberry Hills Farms located in Manson and knew it was a place I wanted to go while we were camping at Lake Chelan State Park. Manson is a small town north of the town of Chelan and across the lake from where we were camped.

The trip was well worth our time. Blueberry Hills Farms has everything I love about a destination. This place has collectibles, homemade pies, canned goods, beautiful gifts and cookbooks for sale, very delicious food, beverages served in canning jars, and a beautiful view. Since we were there in early April I couldn't enjoy the ripened blueberries or the orchards surrounding it ready to bear fruit, but just the view was spectacular. My Reuben sandwich was the best. and we even got homemade french fries. We were so full from lunch we took our homemade pie home to the tent trailer to eat later. The homemade pie is also to die for. The photographs under the glass on the tables are collections of family members through the years. Here is another view of the the rows of blueberries waiting for the snow to melt and the weather to warm.

One collection that caught my eye when we walked in was the one above. I thought it was some fancy dancy light only to find out it was a huge collection of sunglasses. They looked really cool hanging from the ceiling with all their many shapes, sizes, and colors.

Another thing that drew me to this place was the website by Kari Sorenson, the owner. You can visit it here. Just reading the website will inspire you to visit this place if you are in the area. We had a fantastic spring break in the Chelan area and one highlight was our visit to Blueberry Hills Farms.

Celebrating National Poetry Month: #22



Invisible Indian

A few weeks ago
the cashier at the grocery store,
seeing my dark hair
and dark eyes,
counted my change
back to me in Spanish.

Three days later
the waitress at the pizza place
made the same mistake.
Happens all the time
since I moved to Miami.
As though without buckskin, braids and beads
I don’t exist.

At a pow-wow last Sunday
I spoke to a Cherokee
wearing faded black jeans and a tee shirt
standing beside a display of stone sculptures
I told him I admired his work.

He didn’t mistake me for Hispanic
But saw that I was Indian
and even guessed my tribe.
Other Indians always recognize me.

Maybe they hear the echoes of the drums
In the rhythms of my voice.
Glimpses the shadows of my Indian grandmother
In the chiseled cheekbones of my face,
Or see the turquoise in my heart.

-Deloras (Dee) Lane