41 - LOGAN HALL

Music lingers softly outside the boarded-up windows of Logan Hall, stirring memories in the hearts of those who once filled its dance floor. It recalls Saturday night dances, the joyful rhythm of feet moving in unison, and the shy, stolen kisses shared during intermissions.

In this rural community, dancing was more than a pastime; it was a vital thread in the fabric of life. Logan Hall held a special place, especially for Mom, located just half a mile from her childhood farm. From within those walls, music poured out over the endless stretches of flat land, beckoning hardworking farmers to set down their tools, rest their weary bodies, and let themselves be carried away by the beat.

Mom often looks back with a tender smile at the countless dances she attended—the lively pauses between songs, the pure innocence of courting in those times, and the unforgettable night she met Dad at a dance in 1941.

In the painting, I added my son’s car, a 1941 Silver Streak Pontiac he lovingly restored as a teenager. Like his grandfather before him, he gave new life and purpose to something old and forgotten, weaving a thread of continuity through generations.