My precog signals for sorting the household mail into "mine" and "not mine" don't work anymore.

Sorting the mail is such a mindless job that it hardly bears notice. Only it's mindless by virtue of learned habits, and I'm finding that my habits require re-learning.

Over the past near-decade of living with Episcopalians, Methodists, Catholics, Presbyterians, and Christians-of-no-particular-flavor, I could be pretty sure that the envelopes coming from my California-based Baptist Credit Union were for me. Not so here; after all, I was eligible for membership in the credit union in the first place by virtue of being the grandchild of these grandparents, who were members of an eligible Baptist Church.

I've noticed that I recognize my aunts' handwriting even before my mind registers the words written in that hand. Everywhere else I've lived, of course, mail from my aunts would be mail for me. But when it's directed to this address, it's almost certainly a card for their father.

And that's not even getting started on the sort of promotional media that gets attached to a name and address that has over a lifetime subscribed to various publications in the evangelical subculture.