Most of my late brother’s business was taken care of yesterday afternoon and evening. I’m tapping this out over breakfast in a folksy ’50s-style diner in Darien, Connecticut. I’m heading back to the city a few minutes with the idea of catching a 1:05 pm Continental flight to LA.

Irate passenger: “Now see here — this ship is scheduled, most definitely scheduled to leave port at 12 midnight!” First mate: “Scheduled, Mr. Helms, but not, I fear, destined to do so.”