WESTPORT, Conn. – With his global fame, devastating blue eyes and career of playing lovable anti-heroes, Paul Newman could have gotten away with anything. He could have been a jerk. But he wasn’t.

That may sound like a backhanded compliment, but in an age when Cat 5 winds push stars of his caliber into lives of bed-hopping dissipation, Newman’s quest for stability stands out. Newman never became homeless by acquiring too many homes. He passed on the portfolio of flashy properties in beach and ski resorts, in Manhattan and Beverly Hills.

Everyone knew the address of Paul Newman’s main street. It was Westport, 06880.

I leave it to the film historians to recall Newman’s long career and rank him in their talent scorebook. I prefer to fix on the Hollywood icon who embraced ordinariness in a leafy commuter town 44 miles from New York City.

Seen from afar, Westport village this week could be “October,” the most prized month on New England’s calendar art. A close-up of the homey storefronts, however, reveals a Gap, Ann Taylor and other chain names.

Beyond the cluster of 150-year-old houses, new mansions spread where onions used to grow. Still, Westport retains much of the region’s old-fashioned charm. American flags line picturesque bridges and modest homes can still be found.

Fifty years ago, a recently divorced Newman left Hollywood and settled here with his new wife, actress Joanne Woodward. They spent $96,000 for a farmhouse with two barns. Fifty years later, they were still married and living there. It’s not for nothing that Connecticut is called the “land of steady habits.”

Newman never wanted to be a local celebrity here. He wanted to be a local. To pull that off, he had to downsize himself, but that came naturally.

He frequented the Westport Pizzeria and went trick-or-treating with his grandsons. The man who lived next door told The Stamford Advocate that Newman once climbed above his stockade fence and yelled: “Hi, I’m Paul Newman, your neighbor. Seen my dog?”

Newman directed plays at the Westport Country Playhouse. The townspeople rarely bothered him. It was almost a Westport ordinance to leave the Newmans alone.

The cultural tides wanted to transform Newman into a gorgeous marble statue. To fight back, he employed a very effective weapon: self-mockery. For example, his Newman’s Own brand of salad dressings and other products – the profits go to charity – feature pictures of him in funny costumes.

Though a committed liberal, Newman resisted efforts to turn his celebrity into political office. In the 1980s, Democrats wanted him to run against two incumbent Republicans – Rep. Stewart McKinney and Sen. Lowell Weicker.

Newman reluctantly went public with his support of Ned Lamont, the anti-Iraq war candidate who in 2006 wrested the Democratic nomination from Sen. Joe Lieberman. (Earlier political endorsements had prompted a Wall Street Journal columnist to call for a boycott of his salad dressing.)

Newman had written a robo-call script on behalf of Lamont. A robo call is a recorded political message. As a semi-joke, he personally phoned several constituents, pretending to be a robo-call. People just hung up on him.

On Sunday, the day after Newman died, I drove to the Playhouse to find some sort of tribute. There was just a note on the door saying that the staff is “deeply saddened by the loss of our friend Mr. Newman.” I tried to interview an actor and a stagehand wandering around the property, but they refused. They were forbidden to talk about Newman.

That seemed an unnecessary lockdown to me, but I respected it.

Paul Newman was “family” in this community. Even in death, his privacy was to be honored.