My father-in-law was an accomplished photographer. He traveled the world and brought home some beautiful images of African photo safaris, the Australian outback, even from the Darian Gap that separates Panama and Columbia. I wasn’t so sure he’d make it back from that one, but there was a special bird in that deadly place, full of pumas and scary snakes and drug cartels, so off he went.

He passed a couple of years ago, and one of his photos came to me. It’s not a picture of a rhino or a lion, or some exotic adventure; rather it’s a photo of some old and rusted 1949-1951 shoebox Fords, and a couple of teepees.

I inherited my love of these old Fords from my parents. My mom had a ‘49, and my dad a ‘51, both ragtops. Some of my earliest memories are Saturdays somewhere under the hood or underneath one of these cars. By the time I came around, both cars were quite old, and worn out, but my father had a mechanical knack for keeping what would be another man’s junk running.

I found out recently that this is a photo of a place somewhere on US Route 66, a motel or rest stop. If it’s still there now, or if it’s been bulldozed, I do not know. I framed the photo and put it up on the wall of my office, it’s one of my most prized possessions. I’m not sure my father-in-law knew about my father’s, or my inherited love of the old ‘50s shoeboxes, but the day I found this photo going through my father-in-law’s stuff it was like I’d just glimpsed Nirvana. I’ve always loved this Buddhist definition of the place at the end of all our madness: where the spirit loses the illusions of self and transcends all pain, and finally finds peace.

I’ve never been a big heaven or hell guy, although a lot of religion was certainly offered to me. I believe there is a power greater than ourselves, and I like to think in the end, our soul goes some place other than a hole in the dirt. If any of that is true, please make mine a teepee on some grassy American plain, working on an old flathead Ford. Maybe I’ll find my dad there too, with his boxes of old Craftsman and New Britain tools, and a cold Rheingold beer, when the day’s work is through. That’s heaven enough for me.