Cooperative Living Northern Virginia Electric • June 2016 • Rural Living

I have always been in love with the Virginia State Police. When I was 2 or 3, I remember being taken to the VSP substation, and treated like royalty. Someone would prop me up on a desk. Someone else would sneak me candy.

I came across the digits “382” today, and was thrust down Memory Lane. My father’s Virginia State Police call number was 382. Back as early as I can remember, the words “382 Culpeper” meant Daddy was calling the office.

Back then, it was not verboten for state troopers to have their kids in the patrol car, if need be. We weren’t actually on patrol, but since Mom didn’t drive, if we had to go to the doctor’s or something, Daddy would pick us up in his blue-and-gray car and take us for a ride. Now and then, something exciting would happen, and we’d sit back there as he raced through the streets with the lights and siren blaring. (Please don’t write a letter about how unsafe this is; it does not happen today, but back in the late 1950s, it did.)

I have always been in love with the Virginia State Police. When I was 2 or 3, I remember being taken to the VSP substation up near Occoquan, and treated like royalty. Someone would prop me up on a desk. Someone else would sneak me candy. Everyone loved me, and I returned the sentiment. Other state troopers were the only people with whom my parents socialized. One of my favorite family photos is a black-and-white shot of a group of troopers and their dolled-up wives, laughing at a big table at “The Nightingale,” their favorite nightclub. Everyone looks beautiful and sophisticated, especially my mother.

Here are some of my favorite memories of Daddy’s early trooper days. First and foremost: The ride to the circus. Daddy was “working” the circus in Hot Springs. He’d gotten a bunch of free tickets, so he rounded up the neighborhood kids, and loaded them and us in the patrol car. We were 17 in number, piled four-deep in the back seat. As we labored up the road, we passed the reporter, Johnny Gazzola, walking up the hill. Daddy slowed, rolled down his window, and called, “Need a ride, John?” I laugh about it to this day.

We never knew just what Daddy might be bringing home from the road. Once, he found an injured turkey. Always a friend to animals, he wrestled it into the back of his cruiser and carted it home. He settled the turkey in our basement in Alexandria. All the city kids flocked to see it. I was quite popular while the turkey was in residence, although he was not there for long.

Daddy got in a little trouble for that. The turkey made quite a mess in the back seat. Daddy, who was high on the trooper totem pole, simply turned that car in for another one. Days later, a new trooper said to him, “Dave, I don’t know what you did in that cruiser, but it smells like (something awful)!”

Another time, he was about to wheel around a box in the middle of the road when it moved. He investigated, and thus we had a new puppy named Snapper.

Most of all, he brought home people. Stranded motorists never needed to fear if David McCollum was on duty. Mom welcomed a steady stream of strangers; she happily fried another chicken for dinner. Often, they spent the night in our bedroom, and we slept on the living room floor. I always volunteered to sleep on the floor. Please don’t ask me to do it today.

More than once, I managed to fall down and skin my knees running to meet Daddy when he got home. No worries. There was a first-aid kit in the cruiser; I got a Band-Aid, and a little extra attention. I managed to fall down a lot.

In my 20s, I never worried about being pulled over and given a ticket. As soon as the troopers saw my license, they’d say, “Are you Dave McCollum’s daughter?” And then, I’d be on my way with (yet another) stern warning. Funny, but it didn’t matter where in Virginia I was; Daddy was a legend in his time.

Sadly, Daddy’s time is long gone. I rarely engage in driving behavior that elicits being pulled over by a trooper these days. But the one time I did, the name “Margo McCollum Oxendine” didn’t mean a thing to the trooper. He was probably 35 years younger than I. My guess is, he just didn’t want to ruin a little old lady’s day.

To order Margo Oxendine’s A Party of One, email recorder@htcnet.org, or call 540-468-2147 Monday-Thursday from 9-5.