Woodstock. It’s not the only defining event of our generation, but it is one that still sticks in the minds of those who were there, and those who followed it from afar. Ian Margieson has written a novel called “Woodstock: In the Quiet Morning

Saturday 23rd August 1969. With violins in our sunset, we hung around Orange for no longer than we needed to. And after picking up a few supplies, we headed back out to the river. Janis seemed in a bullish mood, as if the discontent of earlier had left her. Either that or she had bullied it into submission. We made a makeshift camp on the banks of the Sabine under the now sinking Texan sun; we lit a fire, made from anything we could find and given ample ammunition by liberal douses of Southern Comfort. The ground was hard and the breeze was warm.

On the other side of the river was a barbed wire fence, rusted from rain and covered in animal fur. This was truly rustic America. The color of the sky that evening was as sweet as any I can remember, its changing hue seemingly pulsing from somewhere within itself. Janis, bottle in hand, leaned herself back on one of the big old tires of the Lincoln while I made myself comfortable on a log. She puffed on a cigarette, blowing the smoke into that of the bonfire, while the embers and splints crackled and sparkled against the twilight backdrop, like tiny pearls taking leave of their captivity. Every now and then, one of us would get up to check the sausages, cooking on a primitive spit and when they were ready, we returned to our places to feast upon our humble banquet. Nothing tastes better than food prepared outside.

For a long time, we didn’t talk, allowing the scene around us to hold its own conversation, but eventually it was Janis who broke the silence. “You ever told a lie, Peaches?” It seemed a deceptively simple question.

“Of course, as much as my mother might like to think otherwise. Who hasn’t?”

“When was the last time?”

“Jesus, I don’t recall it,” I answered quickly, not really giving it any thought. “When I was a kid, I guess. If you mean a white lie though, well I guess we’re all guilty of that every day. Who goes through life saying what’s on their mind? It just isn’t practical.”

“Have you lied to me?” That one, I did give some thought.

“No, I haven’t. I am what I am, I guess.” At this, Janis looked pensive, brooding almost. She threw the end stub of her cigarette into the fire, immediately relighting another. “You are what you are?” she said. “I guess you are. My man Peaches, from Belfast, Ireland, twenty years old and a long way from home. Two sisters and a brother, right? You work in a clerk’s office and all you’ve ever wanted to do is come to America.” It was funny to hear the basic facts of my life thrown together so raggedly, somewhat disconcerting too. I nodded, but said nothing, waiting to see where Janis was taking me.

“And what about me?”

“What about you?” I asked. Silence.

“What do you know about me, Peaches? Have I lied to you?” Now, the silence overpowered even the crackling of the campfire as Janis’ words hung in midair, daring me to do something with them. She looked directly at me, with eyes that almost begged me to challenge her. I didn’t know how to though, not back then. “Janis,” I began. “I know you like wildlife, I know you’re passionate about music … you’re fiercely loyal and you drink more than anyone I’ve ever met. Damn, you drink more than everyone I’ve ever met put together! Beyond that? Well, you didn’t give me your name for a whole day and you’ve gone out of your way to avoid telling me anything about where we’re going in Port Arthur. You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever known … and …” I stopped, drew breath and looked at Janis. She didn’t speak, but somehow her face eased the words out of me, like a soft glove sliding off of a delicate hand. “The most infuriating by far,” I repeated. “But I’ve …”

“Go on, honey,” she said this time.

“I’ve had more fun with you than I’ve ever had in my life before.” I threw my arms up in a kind of exasperated way. “But have you lied to me? I don’t know. I hope not, but nothing is going to take away the past week. Janis,” I said with a lump in my throat. “I can’t thank you enough. You’ve made it the thrill of my life.”

I stood up from the log, sat back down again and got up once more, shifting around nervously, naively embarrassed at what I had just said. The smoke from the fire drifted across Janis’ face, making it hard to see her. “Shit Peaches,” she said slowly, “are they all like you in Ireland? Man, I musta been livin’ on the wrong side o’the ocean.” Her words, so often mocking and sardonic, were different as she said this. There was a sincerity in her voice, which made me both relieved and anxious at the same time.

She ran her fingers through her hair and as the smoke cleared, I could see she was steeling herself to say something. “Man, I gotta be honest with you and let me tell you Peaches, that’s somethin’ I ain’t entirely been so far. Shit, I’ve been runnin’ with my foot on the gas and empty in the tank for too damn long. You get kinda clogged up, you know what I mean?” She laughed, but not comfortably so, before continuing. “I guess you just get used to it and one day you wake up an’ you can’t remember how to get back home. Man, I been away so long I can’t remember where I came from. And I gotta get back home, darlin’.”

“Port Arthur?” I asked, sitting back down. “No,” she whispered through the crackles. And then she laid it on me. The rest of my life was about to begin.

Ian Margieson’s new book, “Woodstock: In the Quiet Morning” is available at Amazon.co.uk.

On a short list of historical events, Woodstock has remained part of the cultural lexicon. As Arnold Skolnick, the artist who designed Woodstock’s dove-and-guitar symbol, described: “Something was tapped, a nerve, in this country, and everybody just came.”

From August 15th to the 17th, the Woodstock Music and Arts Fair held in 1969 in the Catskill Mountains of New York’s Sullivan County, on Max Yasgur’s farm in the town of Bethel, was mecca to an A-list of the top performers of rock, folk, and popular music of the time. The rural Borscht Belt area, best known for farming and summer vacationing, would be transformed overnight, briefly becoming New York State’s second largest city, with more than 450,000 people.

Producer Michael Lang woke up that Friday morning to realize that something was missing … the ticket booths. Other had known for days, but that was Lang’s first inkling that Woodstock would never collect a single dollar at the gate.

“By then, the main road leading in had become the busiest two-lane highway in America as everybody converged for one big cosmic, cultural celebration. Signs read ‘Welcome Aquarians,’ and it looked like the entire Aquarian Nation was marching past. The multiple lanes of traffic heading west ground to a halt, and the roadsides became littered with abandoned vehicles. People found it easier to proceed on foot and joined the mass heading down the road to the festival site,” says a local, Stu Fox of Ithaca, New York.

Brooklyn residents Babette Brackett, 25, and her husband packed their Volkswagen square-back sedan with two coolers full of food, two tents, ponchos, air mattresses, plastic shower curtains, a portable playpen-crib filled with baby toys, a bag of puzzles, crayons, books, and their two children – Anna was 3-1/2 and Nathan was eight months.

“We left on Friday morning because rumors were circulating that 200,000 people might be there,” recalls Brackett. “We passed a camper pulled over on the Thruway, and the state police were going through every piece of their baggage. After that we drove especially careful. It took about three hours to get to White Lake and more than an hour to travel the final three miles to Hurd Road.”

Forty years later and the music, memories and memorabilia of Woodstock still ring true with the fortunate souls who were there, and those who can only wish they had been. In Woodstock: Peace, Music & Memories, the sights and experiences of three history-making days in the summer of ’69 are revisited and celebrated.

“Woodstock: Peace, Music & Memories” is available through Amazon.com.

Learn more at WoodstockPeace.com.

Undoubtedly, if I had been just a couple of years older in the summer of 1969, I would have found my way to Bethel, New York. Woodstock, one of the greatest events of all times, was happening a mere 60 miles from where I lived. I remember watching the news reports with my mom, and her being aghast at what we were seeing. But me, I wished I was there.

A few years later, I married. Had my children, had my life … and Woodstock was something that I never thought about after those days. Until 1994. That’s when my children and I attended a festival in Bethel, and I realized exactly where I was.

Finally, I made it … 25 years later! Standing at the marker, gazing at the breathtaking view, I was mesmerized. The magnificence of this peaceful setting brought back memories of those times past. As I walked on that field on Max Yasgur’s Bethel dairy farm, I was overwhelmed by the sense of importance for what had happened there and a respect for what it represented.

I found myself drawn back to visit often after that weekend, and always grabbed a newspaper to see what was going on in the area. I soon was shocked to learn that this global icon, the place that I had come to love and visit, was going to be developed. I couldn’t understand why anyone would choose this piece of land to develop. It was beautiful. In the middle of nowhere, but literally discovered by thousands every year. I was disappointed, but honestly, what was I going to do about it? I’m not even a resident of New York.

Then in 2002, I got my computer and discovered what it was to “surf the net.” I stumbled across a group of people with the same objections I had over the destruction of this historic site. They called themselves the Woodstock Preservation Alliance, and they were circulating a petition. I printed out a page, and filled it out. From that I grew involved, and soon became co-leader of that organization and its campaign to pursue the historic preservation of the original Woodstock site.

For several years, we worked to make sure that the integrity of the original Woodstock site would remain untouched as it faced the development of the Bethel Woods Center for the Arts. There were only five of us, but we took our concerns all the way to the federal government. In retrospect, it’s hard to believe that we, as a handful of people, were able to accomplish what we did. All of us — 3 different generations, 2 different countries, and 6 different backgrounds. Ultimately, we were successful. We saw a ninety percent downsize of the original plans, and the Woodstock site was safe. That turned out to be a win-win situation for all.

More often than not, what was important yesterday is erased by tomorrow. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to play an active role in the preservation efforts of this global landmark, and proud of the changes we were able to affect. My years of involvement were filled with passion, privilege and enlightenment. I finally made it to Woodstock, but in a way that no one else will ever have the chance to experience, and what I learned is that it is possible for an ordinary grandmother, in small town America, to make a difference.

So here we are … approaching 2009. I’m truly starting to believe that your memory starts getting a little foggy after you reach fifty. Does anyone even remember Woodstock? There’s an old saying that goes, “If you remember Woodstock, you weren’t there,” although that is something I’ve proven to be wrong. The 40th anniversary is right around the corner. Can you imagine? I have a hard time believing that my granddaughter is eight, let alone that forty years have passed by. Nothing like Woodstock will ever happen again. It’s been tried, time and time again, but the outcomes were disastrous. Was it the difference in people, the times, society, the music … who knows?

They say you can’t relive the past, but with the anniversary drawing near, I thought it just might be possible. Four years have passed since our preservation efforts, and since then, I’ve missed working with the people, and I miss “Woodstock.” So, along with one of my partners from the campaign, we’re now trying to preserve something new: memories. Finding and documenting memories of Woodstock ‘69 to place in a book.

I’ve been compiling rare, if never before seen, personal photos from Woodstock 1969, and putting them together with recollections from concert-goers, locals, and anyone else who was in the area at that time, anyone else who has a story to tell. It’s like the icing on the cake. This time around, it’s fun and interesting instead of important and necessary. I’ve been talking with people from all parts of the country, each with their own perceptions and memories. If you’d be interested in talking with me and getting involved in this unique project to permanently mark a milestone for our baby boomer generation, please contact me at: joann1108@aol.com. I hope to share the past, and for those who don’t remember it, maybe create a spark. Woodstock sure did!