About once every couple of months some Mormon missionaries stop by the house to check in on me. We were Mormons when I was a kid, until my folks were divorced in the mid-70s, and the church never removed me from its database. For some reason they don’t chase down my brother, but they’ve been knocking on my door every where I’ve lived since college. Last week they stopped by while I was out and our 11 year old son left a note on the fridge (pictured at left, click on it for a full view). For those who can’t read his writing it says, “The people in black and white clothes stopped by and asked to see Dad — Justin.” Luckily I figured out that there weren’t Mennonites, priests or undertakers knocking on doors in the neighborhood.