I wrote this week's Spouse Calls column while visiting my hometown in Oklahoma. I was shamlessly sipping cappucino, writing about the "Small World" of military life, while my daughter slaved away at driver's education class. When her class was over, I picked her up and took her to get a burger at the local Braum's.

As we walked in, Jessie did a classic double take and said "That looks like ... but it can't be."

"Can't be who?" I asked.

"Miss Cathy."

I looked and immediately saw the woman, who was either Jessie's dance teacher in Ramstein, Germany, or a dead ringer, down to wardrobe and hairstyle.

Dateline: Cincinnati. I'm sitting in a lounge provided for military members and families by the airport, local volunteers and donors -- a godsend in the midst of a six-hour layover before our nine-hour flight to Frankfurt. My two children and I are surrounded by other military family members, some sleeping, reading or watching television, each waiting for the next leg of the journey.