Many of my blog regulars know that the reason the postings have fallen off of late is because of my father’s recent illness. He died in his sleep early Sunday morning; my heartfelt thanks to the many people who have helped me get through a difficult time.

A brief FAQ for the questions I’ve heard most often this week: yes, I am keeping both my Dad’s apartment and my apartment in Washington, with the expectation of dividing my time between my two homes; I am unsure what I’m going to do with my Dad’s candy store, but I’m inclined to keep it going as soon as I determine how; and yes, I’m doing pretty well this week, but email is always welcome.

Below I’m appending my father’s obituary and my eulogy for him, in part because I feel he deserves a semi-permanent tribute, and this website is about as semi-permanent as anything in my life.

David Porten, 74, a business owner known as the “Candyman” on the Atlantic City Boardwalk, died in his sleep Sunday. A native of Philadelphia, he was well known to many people through his series of stores in Philadelphia, Wrightstown, NJ, and for the past 12 years, Atlantic City, as well as his regular activities in local Jewish communities and chambers of commerce. His lifetime was marked by his unwavering devotion to his mother, Ida; his wife, Lois; and his surviving son Jeffrey. Memorial donations may be made to UPHS, Department of Rehabilitation Medicine, 3400 Spruce Street, 5 West Gates, Philadelphia, PA 19104.

Eulogy, October 30 2007, 18 Heshvan 5768

Many of you already know that I’ve been here in Atlantic City for the past few months. Shortly after I got here, I learned something that I hadn’t really known before.

It wasn’t exactly a shocker that it seemed like everyone who has ever set foot on the Boardwalk knew my Dad — even if they called him the Candyman without knowing his real name. But what did surprise me was that, over and over, the people who I met — who only casually knew my father — didn’t merely like him. They actively cared for him. I’m talking about a hundred store regulars whose names I’ve forgotten, the postman, the UPS guy, the guys with the rolling chairs, the cops on bikes, ninety percent of the Tropicana workforce; even the folks I met in the Atlantic City Mercantile department.

Every time, I expected to see, perhaps, polite familiarity with my father. And every time, you could tell by the looks on their faces and the tone of their voices that they weren’t just asking after Dad to be polite to me.

If this is the effect he had on casual acquaintances, is there any wonder about how powerfully he affected the people in this room, the people who loved him? We loved him because he loved us, with unwavering intensity. And despite the constant sarcastic jokes my Mom and I both made about how the little white dogs came first—believe me when I say that we never spent a minute doubting that we were the center of my father’s life. He made that a wonderful place to be.

I had a great friendship with my father, and I once asked him how he had learned to be who he was, and especially how he had learned to be such an excellent father to me. He gave all the credit to his mother and to my mother, and refused to take any of it for himself. Which may come as a surprise to all of us who have trouble putting “humble” and “David Porten” in the same sentence.

But it’s true, and I spent many years telling him repeatedly what I’m about to share with you now, in the hope that when he hears it today he’ll finally, truly accept the honor due to him. So Dubbie:

for persevering through adversity and always, always coming through with that raw confidence you had in yourself;

for the number of times you achieved the impossible, because your self-confidence was so damn well justified;

for being a much better dancer than I’ll ever be;

for epitomizing and showing me what it means to be a true mensch and gentleman;

for being simultaneously the strongest and the most tender man I have ever met;

for all of these reasons, Dubbie, and many more, you are my hero, and you always will be.