Reginald Centracchio, the Republican candidate for lieutenant governor, campaigns at the Barrington Senior Center on Thursday.

The Providence Journal / BOB THAYER

For Reggie Centracchio, the biggest challenge of the campaign for lieutenant governor is selecting the right tie each day.

That’s the joke, anyway, from a man who’s spent most of his adult life in uniform.

As Centracchio travels around the state, someone will occasionally say, “You look different with clothes on.” He knows what they mean.

He also likes to joke that this is a general election — one in which the voters should elect a general.

Centracchio spent 48 years in the Rhode Island National Guard, 10 of them as the state adjutant general. He was appointed twice by former Republican Gov. Lincoln C. Almond, and again by Governor Carcieri, before retiring earlier this year with the rank of major general. (“You know when it’s time for you to do something else,” he says.)

As an officer in the National Guard, Centracchio worked with six other governors before Almond. He cites that as evidence he would work effectively with Democratic Lt. Gov. Charles J. Fogarty, should Fogarty win the governor’s race. (As a Republican, Centracchio naturally favors Carcieri, and would like to see Rhode Island’s Constitution changed so the governor and lieutenant governor run on a single ticket. “I think that the lieutenant governor is obliged to work with the governor, not on a separate agenda,” he said during a radio debate earlier this month.)

Centracchio’s full-time military service stretches back to the Cold War era, when Rhode Island was home to five Nike missile sites. He was in charge of the North Smithfield missile site until 1971, when the missiles were deactivated after the United States signed a treaty with the Soviet Union.

After that many years in the military, Centracchio, 66, is a dyed-in-the-wool morning person. He routinely wakes before 6. Some mornings he eats breakfast with his wife, Linda, in the Scituate home he built with his own hands. He bought the land in 1969, created an artificial pond and backfilled the grounds to create rolling hills.

Centracchio grew up in West Warwick, the middle child of three. His grandparents on both sides were Italian immigrants. His mother, Agnes, worked in the Lippitt textile mill. His father, Reginald senior, built houses; the younger Centracchio has dabbled in that as well, building “two or three houses a year” around the state, in between his work with the Guard and gigs playing the trumpet in a big-band jazz orchestra. That’s when he’s not tending his vegetable garden, his grapevines or his classic cars, a 1966 Mustang convertible and a 1928 Model A. Ford.

Centracchio has two sons, a daughter, a stepson and a stepdaughter. He and Linda have been married just 10 years, but they’ve known each other since they were teenagers. She lived in Coventry, but they belonged to the same parish, Sacred Heart. He dated her sister; she married his cousin. Four decades later, they’d both been married to others and widowed, when they reconnected.

After a career in the public sector, Centracchio says seeking matching public funds for his campaign wasn’t a choice, it was a necessity. “I’m certainly not a wealthy person,” he says.

In filings with the state Ethics Commission, Centracchio lists no real-estate holdings other than his primary residence and no businesses in which he holds an ownership interest greater than 10 percent or $5,000. He listed 2005 income between $50,000 and $100,000 from the Rhode Island National Guard; a military pension between $25,000 and $50,000; and a state pension between $1,000 and $10,000. He also reported earning between $1,000 and $10,000 as a political analyst for Channel 12 (WPRI); between $200 and $1,000 for gigs with the Nitelife Orchestra; and investment income between $3,000 and $30,000 from three sources.

Centracchio’s campaign had raised $122,000 as of Oct. 9, the end of the last reporting period, and had gotten an additional $138,231 through the matching funds program, which matches private contributions candidates raise if the candidates agree to abide by spending limits. Centracchio had spent $204,000 by the same date. He had loaned his campaign $20,000 of his own money.

One thing working in his favor: People know him. Over the years, he says, “I think I’ve put in more time in parades than anyone else in the state.”

It annoys Centracchio when one of his opponents says the lieutenant governor’s job should be eliminated because it serves no useful purpose. Centracchio says that opponent, independent candidate Robert J. Healey Jr., is “making a mockery out of the whole election process.”

“I am serious about this candidacy, and when I take an oath of office, I take it seriously,” Centracchio said during a radio debate earlier this month.

The third candidate, Democratic state Sen. Elizabeth H. Roberts, emphasizes the policy role of the lieutenant governor’s office. The Democrat has carved out a niche in the Senate working on health-care issues, and says she would continue that focus as lieutenant governor.

Centracchio, sees the second-in-command function as “essential.” His ads mention quality-of-life issues — health care, tax relief, job growth — but in debates and public appearances, his rhetoric more often veers toward talk of leadership and accountability.

Still, Centracchio says his years in the Guard gave him pragmatic skills and cultivated loftier, more abstract qualities. “I have handled payrolls for 5,000 people,” he says. “My budget was a multimillion-dollar budget.”

Centracchio travels around the state in a silver Buick Regal with an adjutant general emeritus license plate.

Between appearances one day recently, campaign manager Jacques Dextradeur II suggested stopping for coffee. Centracchio chose Dunkin’ Donuts over Starbucks.

Afterward, it was back in the car, heading for a lunchtime meet-and-greet at the Barrington Senior Center. On the radio, a talk-show host was discussing Lieutenant Governor Fogarty’s proposal to mandate health insurance coverage for everyone. A caller to the radio show asked rhetorically how Fogarty would cover the cost. Centracchio burst into fervent applause. It’s a point he often makes himself.

At the senior center, director Debra Diniz greeted Centracchio. He moved off into the crowd, patting men on the back and pinching women’s cheeks.

“That’s General Centracchio,” Diniz told a few other employees gathered around the reception desk. “He looks different without his uniform on. I almost didn’t recognize him.”