The next year, I progressed to a Chevy Nova and gave my parents gray hair while I struggled with the precision needed to operate a standard transmission. The sound of grinding gears made it painfully clear to them that I was better suited to an automatic.

More than 20 years ago, it was my daughters learning the fine art of driving. That raised concerns I'll never forget.

For instance, there was a phone call marking the moment my oldest daughter discovered what could happen to the front of her car if she didn't leave quite enough room between her vehicle and the one she was following. The increased awareness carried the price tag of an extra work shift at Prudhoe Bay for me and some hard-earned first-job wages for her.

Then there was the time she discovered that, yes, you must believe without question that the bus in the left lane with the right-turn signal blinking really does need two lanes to make a right-hand turn; yes, that's the reason the right lane should remain empty; yes, a vehicle (hers) really could be made considerably narrower in a matter of seconds when squashed between the side of a turning bus and a sidewalk.

I also remember all too well the horrifying notification that came when a vehicle in which my youngest daughter was a passenger failed to stop at an intersection and plowed into another automobile, seriously injuring someone in the other car. Thankfully, my daughter was OK.

Now, my oldest daughter wheels around Los Angeles like she's been driving all her life. I'm pretty sure she knows the L.A. area better than MapQuest. My youngest daughter lives in Portland and delivers her son to football games and her daughter to soccer practice like city driving, complete with intersections, was second nature.

Flash forward another generation. My four grandkids are still too young to be drivers. However, when my grandson was 5, he had a battery-operated car he could drive from one cabin to the next on our family homestead. I'd watch him bounce along the dirt road, smile to myself and imagine a time in the future when his mom and dad would worry over him staying safely between the lines.

But last week's phone call wasn't about my driving. Nor was it about my daughters' driving, thankfully. And, even at the ancient age of almost-60, I'm not old enough for it to have been about my grandchildren.

It was about my 92-year-old dad.

When I was a child, Dad could skillfully maneuver skiffs and gillnetters through Cook Inlet's strong currents, and he could steer the family Jeep up and down the beach without getting stuck in the mud or losing a load of fish. For 35 years, Dad, as a captain for Alaska's ferry system, turned huge ships on a dime and glided smoothly in and out of port. At the age of 80, he retired from his role as ship's captain, leaving navigation at sea to others, but he's never relinquished the wheel of his vehicle. If the expiration date on his driver's license is any guide, he'll be driving until he's 97.

Last week, when my friend, Ole, called to say he'd seen Dad backing out of a parking spot at the bank, I held my breath, afraid of what Ole wanted to report. After all, Dad is 92. As it turned out, though, Ole simply wanted me to know one of Dad's brake lights was out.

Kind of funny, isn't it? One minute my eyes were fixed straight ahead, into the future, and I was wondering how I'd arrived where I was and how I got there so quickly. Then something little, like that phone call, happened and it became clear life's highway hasn't taken a simple, straight course.

Distracted by the day-to-day stuff, I never realized I'd traveled in a circle.

McKibben Jackinsky can be reached at mckibben.jackinsky@homernews.com.