Tim Meyer is a Duluth architect and community builder writing about Downtown Duluth, politics, business, sports and economic development. Reach him at tim.meyer@meyergroupduluth.com
When I moved to Duluth in 1990, Matt and Helen lived at the end of my alley, the primary access to my home. They were the first African-American residents in our neighborhood — something that, at the time, was still spoken about as if it were unusual.
Matt was a retired cook from the Merchant Marines on the Great Lakes Fleet, originally from Cleveland. He chose Duluth for his retirement because it was his favorite city on the Great Lakes. His wife, Helen, was an extraordinarily active volunteer, especially at St. Michael’s Church in Lakeside.
Together, they became the heartbeat of our block. They helped organize neighborhood block parties and barbecues attended by everyone. Matt waved to me almost every day when I left for work and again when I returned home. It was a small gesture, but steady and sincere.
In my first months in Duluth, neighbors quietly told me about Matt and Helen’s early days on the block — and about the petition. One neighbor had organized a petition to have them removed from the neighborhood. It had been signed by many. The story was shared in whispers, in lowered voices, with visible embarrassment. Eddie, who lived nearby, had initiated it.
Matt and Helen ignored the petition. Instead of retreating, they dug in. They became even more involved. They showed even more love to the neighborhood.
Then one day I saw something that stopped me. Matt and Eddie were standing together in a driveway, leaning on snow shovels or rakes, talking — swapping stories, maybe repeating whatever bad joke they had heard that week. I knew what Eddie had done in those early years. And yet there they were.
Before long they were inseparable. I would see them working in the yard together, walking the block, or sitting in lawn chairs sharing a beer. Best friends. It was almost unbelievable to anyone who had heard the whispered story of how it all began.
At some point they decided to build a community garden together in the small triangle of land in Kelso Park, a tiny City of Duluth park. They worked tirelessly — digging, planting, cultivating, harvesting. I saw them there every day. The produce was given away in abundance to neighbors: potatoes, carrots, corn, and the small tomatoes that grow best in Lakeside’s short season.
Today, Matt, Helen and Eddie have all passed. Helen’s funeral at St. Michael’s Church was the largest ever held there — before or since. I still miss Matt’s smile and his wave as I headed off to work or came home at night. They are gone, but those of us who lived in that neighborhood carry their images with us — and the feeling of community they created.
It was the clearest lesson I have ever witnessed about never judging a book by its cover.
Two years ago, when I ran for City Council and knocked on as many neighborhood doors as I could, I was met mostly by drawn shades and closed blinds. Security cameras. Ring doorbells. I felt a quiet sadness at how many people now keep to themselves.
The loss of community is real.
And I realized how badly we need to return to something simpler: children playing together, block parties and barbecues, community gardens, neighbors sharing produce — small acts that symbolize something much larger.
Love for the place we live.
