I grew up in a State Police household, both proud and fearful.

Back in the days when Dad started, there was no union or shifts. Dad's first assignment was Martinsburg in Company C. We lived there until I was 3, and we were transferred to Parsons. I started elementary school there, but at the beginning of my fourth grade year, a transfer moved us to Keyser. After a couple of short transfers, we landed in Moundsville at the beginning of my seventh grade year. Few troopers were left in any place long.

In those days, too, there was no hourly limit to the day. Growing up, I could count on seeing my dad two hours a day, between 5 and 7 p.m., which was his supper break -- unless he got delayed or called out mid-meal.

We were part of the larger State Police family, often visiting in other officers' homes. Visiting officers were often at our dinner table. My sister and I got to know the other police kids who were just as transient as we were. We got used to making new friends in new towns, knowing all along we may not be there long.

But that was our family's profession.

Dad thrilled over police work. He did not talk often about details of what he was doing, but we knew he loved it. We were proud to say "My dad is a State Police."

We were often fearful, too.

As I got older, I came to understand that supper may be the last time I would see my dad. I remember in later years, hearing Dad tell stories about people who pulled guns on him, sometimes double-barrel shotguns aimed and ready. (In Tucker County, those days even yielded a few still calls, and people get very protective of their homemade liquor.) I am sure we didn't hear half of the close calls.

Nearing retirement and cleaning out files, Dad told us more stories. These stories were more horrific, but we were older. With those stories came an even greater understanding of how Dad shielded us from what he really did. In our childhood, nightmares would have plagued us had he told us of the man who had been hit by the train or of the man who jumped from the bridge to land on the road below, a scene that made even Dad wince.

Dad tried to prepare my mother for the day when a senior trooper and the preacher may come walking up the sidewalk to the front door.

This fear was recently realized for two police families. These officers, in the line of duty, would no longer be returning to their families. While there is no guarantee that anyone will make it back home at the end of the day, police families hug goodbye with a greater chance of no return. These men and women put the community's safety before their own lives and their families. Very few professions require such high stakes for the employee or the family.

Today, I am proud to say that I grew up in the West Virginia State Police family.

To this day, I get excited when I see the blue and gold police cars. Many a week in summer's heat or winter's freezing cold, I helped Dad wash the cruiser. My job was to do the final dry with a chamois; sometimes it was so cold that the water would freeze before it dried.

Today, I am proud when I see that dark olive green and black uniform, remembering it hanging in the houses where I grew up, ready for the next day or call.

Thank you to those men and women who continue to put their lives on the line for their communities. Thank you to those families who live in the shadow of this risky and uncertain profession.

Shamblin is an English teacher George Washington High School.