Today, I drove out to Surry to pick up Andrew from 12 glorious days along the James River at Camp Chanco. I stopped in Smithfield to pick up a Diet Coke; the cashier, as I was turning to leave, said, "And thank you for all you do."
"Hmm," I thought. "Oh, right, I'm in uniform." I'd left Group Hampton Roads, where I'm currently doing a little active duty, in my military-looking ODU.
Some two hours later I'm headed home with mosquito-bitten Andrew riding shotgun when blue lights fill my rear view mirror: a sheriff's deputy for Isle of Wight. Perhaps I'd been driving a bit too aggressively. After running my license and tags he let me go with a verbal warning: was it the uniform again?