The TV ad shows a proud father escorting his college-graduate daughter to a shiny new red sportster parked on the curb. As she jumps with glee, he drops the keys into her hands.

When I turned over the keys to our 1989 Mazda to my son, Brian, after his graduation, my decision felt less jazzy but more practical. The car was safe. It was paid for. Best of all, I could absorb the insurance costs until Brian got established.

Some months later, the notice came saying it was time to renew the Mazda's license tabs. As I took my place at the Department of Motor Vehicles counter, I had all my paperwork except for the vehicle inspection report. Minnesota's Vehicle Inspection Program requires older cars to pass a yearly emissions quality test. You take your car to a conveniently-located site on the outskirts of the metro area where an attendant checks for excessive pollutants.

The clerk behind the counter scowled.

"I can't give you your license tabs. You don't have your emissions control test receipt."

I explained it was impossible to get the car's exhaust emissions tested because my car was in Washington, D.C., with my son Brian. I couldn't tell her the whole story. After graduation, my son drove the car out to seek his fortune in the polluted streets of our nation's Capitol. I supposed I knew he was leaving home for good. In retrospect, why hadn't I transferred the title of the car to his name once he had found a job?

He was only away temporarily, I reasoned. The car was an important tie to Minnesota. As long as he had Minnesota-Land of 10,000 Lakes on his license plates, he was a visitor from another state. As long as he kept his Minnesota driver's license, his permanent address was the same as mine. As long as he was a "multi-use" driver on my insurance policy, we were a family bound together by our mutual acceptance of insurance risks.

The car must keep its Minnesota plates even though Brian had a full-time job in Washington, an apartment in Maryland, a girlfriend. Who knows what may happen when children are only 22? I still had not de-shrined his room. His Twins World Series pennants hung on the wall. Maybe he would come back for graduate school. Maybe he missed my cooking.

I could not share these thoughts with the license tab clerk.

"You'll have to take your problem over to the Pollution Control Agency," she said.

While walking through the labyrinth of velvet gray corridors, I rehearsed my story: "My son has taken my car on a summer trip up the East Coast. Could we have the car tested at a gas station out there?" Or, "My son is working at a student internship in Washington." I would engage her in conversation, win her confidence, ask if she had children.

When I found the woman in charge, my spirits faltered. The woman who glared at me through beady eyes had heard many such stories and had no use for those trying to circumvent rules.

"I can't get the emissions tested on my car because my son has taken it out of state for summer travel," I said.

"When will you get the car back?" she snapped.

"I don't know," I murmured weakly. "Can he get the car tested in another state?"

"No other state has tests for emissions control," she countered.

There were no exemptions from the law.

I went home and called Jim, a family friend who worked at the Department of Public Safety. He said he would make a few strategic calls.

One lucky day Jim sent this e-mail: "I have filed for a temporary extension. They want a copy of Brian's driver's license and birth certificate, a copy of his rental agreement, and a letter from his employer saying how long his internship will run. The test will be waived for six months."

I was ecstatic. I dug out Brian's birth certificate and brought it to Kinko's. I called Brian for more information. He said he had a real job, not an internship. His lease had expired and the landlord did not require a new one.

"Find your landlord!" I said, exasperated. "And make him give you a new lease." Eventually it all came in the mail. I filled out the Application for Temporary Extension and marched all the papers over to the office. I wanted to look that bureaucrat in the eye and show her my trophy collection. But in her place sat a friendly woman who greeted me warmly. I told her I needed approval for a six-month extension for the emissions. She promptly signed the form in the little box marked "For Office Use Only." "You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble," she said. I broke down and told the whole story of my son leaving home.

I sent the new license tabs to Brian. The test extension was only good for six months. What would I do in January when the expiration notice came through?

At Christmas, Brian flew home and left the car in a Maryland parking lot where a snowplow drove into it. The wrecked car was towed to a junkyard. It expired the same month as the emissions test extension did. My son bought a new car with Maryland license plates and got a new driver's license. I took down his baseball posters. MM

Sheila Moriarty is a freelance essayist who lives in St. Paul.