John Updike, who died today at the age of 76, was never one of my favorite authors. He was a little too, I don’t know — suburban? — for my taste. Like if Rob Petri worked at The New Yorker, lived in New Rochelle, and instead of tripping over the ottoman on his way in the door, stumbled into bed with a neighbor’s wife, while his wife got it on with Robbie’s swimming coach and in the end everyone felt guilty and unsatisfied.

There was much more to John Updike, but I missed most of it until close to the end. I met Updike once at a writer’s conference at Montgomery County Community College. While driving there on Rt. 73 (Limekiln Pike) through Blue Bell, Pennsylvania, I passed a small street named Rabbit Run, which I dutifully reported to Mr. Updike when I had the opportunity. “NO!” he said, delighted. He was cordial, approachable and astoundingly devoted to his home state. He was a Pennsylvania gentleman. 
 
For some reason I always thought of Updike as a New England writer when in fact he had a keystone heart as natural and durable as a mortarless stone wall. In the couple of hours I spent in his company he referenced his Berks County roots and his Middle Atlantic values repeatedly in a formal address and casual conversation. He was in awe of the majesty of Philadelphia and the vitality of Pittsburgh. He felt a bit like a country boy on the edge of Pennsylvania big city life. And even into his mid-70’s his boyish innocence in person remained as affecting as his urbane and world weary sexuality in his writing. I feel honored to have shaken his hand in friendship.

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