Lincoln Beach residents, past and present, celebrate 100th anniversary with fellowship, faith and family

Carolyn Lowe left Lincoln Beach a half-century ago. But the Beach never left her.

Born in her grandmother’s house in the Upper Burrell neighborhood, a segregated community that a real estate entrepreneur founded in 1925, the Black Westmoreland County native excelled in her academic studies from a very young age.

She left Lincoln Beach at 18, her career stunted before it began.

“You just couldn’t find a job here — the only thing available to me was housework,” said Lowe, now 82 and living in Maryland. “We knew what was going on. But we decided we were going to soldier on, no matter what.”

Lowe later climbed the administrative ladders of federal bureaucracy during a four-decade career in Washington, D.C., capped by her 1999 retirement.

On Friday afternoon, she returned to Southwestern Pennsylvania to celebrate her hometown’s 100th anniversary.

As she lounged in the shade of a stately oak, she shared stories about what fuels those from the Beach: fellowship, faith and family.

For William Miles Jr. — known as “Tim” in the Beach, because of the large number of Williams already living there during his childhood — ties to the neighborhood weren’t about ZIP codes. They were an identity.

“Having grown up in New Kensington, kids would say, ‘Oh, I’m Irish’ or ‘I’m Italian,’ ” said Miles, 47, who, like Lowe, has found career success in the nation’s capital. “But I was African American. I didn’t have that, because of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and all.”

“But I’ve got the Beach,” he added. “And that’s my foundation.”

There are facts, of course, to describe Lincoln Beach, which remains somewhat hidden behind Puckety Creek and the camouflage of trees alongside Greensburg Road.

New Kensington developer Fred J. Broad founded the 280-lot community as an exclusive area for Blacks — a residential subdivision for workers, migrants from the American South and their families.

At Lincoln Beach’s post-war peak, some 300 residents packed 50 homes there. Despite the draw, the Beach remained resolutely modest, its narrow roads barely wide enough for two-way traffic.

But, like two of the region’s other segregated neighborhoods, Ken Lot and Slicksville, the lot-count, square miles and U.S. Census data didn’t tell the full story of Lincoln Beach.

Many talked Friday about the neighborhood’s casual and neighborly pace, something almost defiant amid the mad rush of 21st-century modernity. A rusty sign near the Beach’s small Baptist church still mandates that motorists drive below 5 mph; another playfully warns about an “old dog,” a “young dog” and “several stupid dogs.”

Lincoln Beach, its current and former residents say, is defined less by segregation, red-lining or the neighborhood’s physical separation from nearby Plum or Lower Burrell than by the familiar bonds that tie together those who call it home.

“We’re all connected,” said Lillian Armstead, 72, a New Kensington woman who grew up in the Beach and introduces herself as “Juanita’s sister.” “That’s what we’re celebrating today: everyone being together.”

Roxanne Thomas agreed. The Pittsburgh woman staffed a vendor table Friday offering Italian ices and cocktails like “The 1-2-3 Henny LB,” a mix of Hennessy cognac, ginger ale and a splash of cranberry juice that references a common neighborhood call-to-arms.

“In 1970, I moved out,” Thomas, now 65, of Brighton Heights said with a laugh. “But I always come back.”

Even the little details Friday were loaded with an understanding that verged on unspoken language.

The neighborhood’s roads lack surnames — no “drive,” no “avenue” — and the aging blue signs affixed to utility poles offer only hints about addresses, like “Washington” or “Johnson,” because people who found the Beach didn’t need directions to take them home.

Nobody in the Beach also lives, or lived, by a street number. Their houses, residents said plainly, could be found “right next to Carmen,” or “at the top of the hill.”

“I loved it. I loved it, and still love it now,” said Dianne LeSueur, 77, a Beach native who now lives in Leechburg and beamed Friday as she boasted about her two adult children.

Some who celebrated Friday — and plan to continue with a potluck dinner Saturday and church service Sunday — said they were “from the Beach,” even if they had never lived there.

Among that group was Micah Hughley, an East Liberty man and U.S. Army veteran who shuffled maple and oak logs under a massive, open-air grill Friday as he roasted a 43-pound hog.

Around 1 p.m., Hughley enticed passersby with infectious smells while talking about community in terms of food. A banquet chef at a Downtown Pittsburgh establishment, he churns out mountains of juicy pulled pork and tender brisket on weekends though his father’s Sticky Mickey’s BBQ operation.

“In restaurants, you don’t know who you’re cooking for — but when I cook here, I try to make food for my mother, for my father, for my grandfather,” said Hughley, 43, as enormous jugs of Open Pit barbecue sauce and cans of Ro-Tel diced tomatoes stood waiting near his hearth.

“I embrace all this. This is part of my culture,” Hughley added. “These are the roots. We’re grounded here.”

Despite the small-town feel, the neighborhood remains far from insular.

It embraces outsiders — like Westmoreland County Commissioner Ted Kopas, who stood on a tiny stage in its Clements Field on Independence Day to deliver a proclamation celebrating the Beach’s centennial.

“Until recently, I had no clue about the historical significance, the cultural significance of Lincoln Beach — and everything Lincoln Beach has meant to Westmoreland County for 100 years,” Kopas said.

“It is so good to see in this angry and broken world,” he added. “I am super proud that you’re proud of who you are — and never forgot where you came from.”