Left-An early photo of Cynthia Appel taken around the time frame of this story (1959-1962). The author is in the fourth generation of her family to live in Solvang. Indulging in her passion for writing, she is living a quiet, idyllic Valley life with her border collie Lily and Main coon cat Rock in the place she knows best.

Let me tell you about my favorite Solvang. It is the one I lived in as a kid. First, there was Andy Iversen's Dry Goods store situated on Copenhagen Drive next to, or practically next to, the drug store. I'm a little fuzzy on exact locations, but I was between six and ten years old. Cut me some slack for heaven's sake.

Andy's was a long, fairly narrow store, with straight aisles between the bins of Levi's, socks, shirts, etc. It had raised hardwood floors, with a patina only age and use can give. I remember standing at the head of one of these runways of wood floors awed by the possibilities.

On a really good day Mr. Iversen was in a good mood, Mom was struck by distraction-deafness and I was feeling particularly fleet-of-foot. I knew I could probably complete three circuits of my track before I got busted.

One little girl could sound like a whole herd of stampeding elephants as she thundered up and down the aisles. Heart thumping wildly in my chest, I reveled in reaching whole new decibel levels as the thumping reverberated off the walls and ceiling to create an unbroken symphony of sound.

Actually, Iversen's wasn't all that bad even after I eventually got reined-in by Mom; next to the register was a whole stand-up display of those most colorful, gruesome and fascinating objects-rabbit's feet.

After my older cousin clued me in on the gospel truth-that they were in fact the actual feet of a cute, big-eared, puff-tailed bunny, I was both repelled and attracted.

I stared at the rabbit's feet wondering how anyone could think they were items of luck. After all, they had jinxed the rabbit by their very existence. I visualized little bunnies on crutches. I never asked for one, but I never passed up the chance to see them.

Across the street, in the middle of the block was Skip Hansen's Butcher Shop. With sawdust on the floor, and the questionable odor of all kinds of raw meat, Hansen's had a certain attraction. I could draw in the sawdust on the floor with my toe, and Skip was always nice.

A blond man of medium height, on the plump side with the most florid complexion I'd ever seen, he was a member of the Solvang Volunteer Fire Department. The last fact was what made him truly memorable.

When there was a fire in town a siren screamed an alert that could be heard for miles around. Originally I thought the alarm was to warn everyone that men were going to be driving through town really fast-and to grab your children and get off the streets, because that's what always happened.

I don't know why it took Skip longer to reach the firehouse than the other guys; after all the firehouse was on Copenhagen Drive too, only a block from his shop. But more than once I remember watching the fire truck go speeding by, then Skip, running for all he was worth behind it. Redder than normal, huffing and puffing, he did make it to every fire. Thank God they carried oxygen.

On Alisal, somewhere around where the Clock Shop is now, was K. P. Knudsen's.

(Like the bookseller Knopf, and unlike knife, the K was pronounced.) K.P.'s was, to me, a beer and ice cream parlor. I don't know what it was officially. I just remember it had a counter in the back and tables around the outside of the room.

Besides double decker chocolate ice cream cones, K.P.'s served pie and had giant jawbreakers and other candies in big jars. Whenever we went in for a treat there were always three or four old Danish guys sitting at the tables having a beer. A store with an identity quandary.

Next to K.P.'s was that temple of entertainment-the Solvang Theater. I've been told multigenerational stories about this place, but since this is my Solvang, I'll limit myself to my own.

I have two recollections that stand above the others. First was when my Mom took my sister and me to see The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. It was not that special a movie, but the good part came when we walked home. We skipped, danced, and generally frolicked and sang the movie's theme song at the top of our lungs. Golden.

Next was the time the local sheriff (we only had one at the time) was visiting my uncle's and volunteered to drop my cousin and me off at the flicks. He let us ride in the back of the patrol car, then turned on the lights a half-block from the theater. Our friends standing in line at the box office were ultra-impressed when he opened the car door to let us out. We were too hot to touch that night.

Etler Duus' Mercantile used to be located right in the center of the block on Copenhagen, up from the pharmacy. For an errand to Etler's my Mom would give me 50 cents, and I'd bring home a loaf of bread and a half gallon of milk.

Across the street where Elna's Dress Shop is now, was The Smart Shop, the only women's clothier in the Valley. Marge Holman was the proprietress and our sole diva of style. She determined what was worn by the women in the Valley, and was also responsible for seeing the same outfit didn't show up at a function on two different women.

The Smart Shop was fodder for the imagination of little girls. If your hands were clean and you had behaved excellently while your Mom was shopping, you could receive the ultimate boon. You could go upstairs for the last half hour, unaccompanied.

Upstairs was fairyland. Formals, bridesmaid dresses, elegant gowns in every jewel tone, and the dresses dreams were made of-Bridal Gowns. Plush carpeting, satin covered couches, and a second story bay window completed the setting. No better place for a little girl to imagine wonderful someday scenarios.

I have many Solvang memories from different stages of my town's life that shaped my life, but this is my favorite