When I met John Updike

John Updike, who died today at the age of 76 ^[1], was never one of my favorite authors. He was a little too, I don’t know — suburban? — for my taste. Like if Rob Petri ^[2] 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.