My mother, Beatrice, died Tuesday morning, losing a battle with the vicissitudes of old age. She was calm and peaceful and not in pain when I kissed her goodbye several hours before. Bea was a few weeks short of her 88th birthday. She was beautiful.

Several years after World War I, in Braddock, my grandfather Dr. Oscar Polk (nee Oscar Ignatius Polashek) married the brilliant (and an astounding 21 years younger than her husband) Rosie Rothenburg. Oscar was born in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, an area geographically in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which had constantly changed hands over the centuries.

Armed with fluency in seven languages. Oscar moved to Pittsburgh and graduated from Pitt Medical School in 1911. His med school yearbook notes that he was an expert in pithing (look it up) frogs for anatomy lessons! He settled in Braddock and married his first wife, Pauline, who sadly died while giving birth to my wonderful uncle, Joseph L. W. Polk, DDS (Pitt and Harvard dental schools). My inspiration.

Rose's father and mother were Hungarians from a small village in the Lake Balaton area on the fertile plains of Hungary. They emigrated from Budapest to the USA, bringing LOTS of recipes. Spicy paparikas, yay!

Oscar's second wife, my grandmother Rose, gave birth to Beatrice in 1921. Bea, like her brother Joe, was striking, tall and fair. The family loved living in the big house near the library overlooking the Edgar Thompson Works.

Braddock was the crowded epicenter of the muscular and remarkable Steel Valley. Oscar changed his white shirt and gown daily three times because of the haze of industrial smoke, dust and darkness. He chain-smoked Raleigh cigarettes, made money (cash, chickens, & whatever) when the U.S. Steel mills were banging, clanging and spewing flat out in full operation.

My grandfather, for many years chief of staff at Braddock General Hospital, died young (56) probably in a cloud of soot. It was front page news. Braddock was a rough stew of Eastern Europeans who adored Dr. Polk, a caring, up-to-date doctor who could speak each native language. I never met Papa, but I am named after him: Owen Polk.

Rosie, or Nana, meanwhile, had complete control of my mom, Bea. To say that Bea's childhood was a bit unorthodox would be an understatement. From an early age Bea was a musician, acrobat, dancer and actress.

She had an accordion with her name emblazoned in shiny rhinestones: BEATRICE. It was very heavy. This, and all the back flips, cartwheels, tap dancing, smiling, emoting took its toll. Bea spent her last 10 years in a wheelchair.

Nana "managed" Bea rather than parented. Rosie was fierce and a genius. Bea was the youngest member of the Musicians Local and had the stage name Be-Be Page. I still have her blue union card. She danced with Gene Kelly and worked as his assistant.

Bea, Be-Be, played the Stanley Theater, the Penn (now my beloved Heinz Hall), the Steel Pier in Atlantic City, everywhere, all the time. Not much of a childhood. It was "Gypsy," only real, with no stripping, please. Whew, she even made a short pilot for the "Our Gang" comedy films. My father could have been "Spanky!" Oh well.

At the University of Pittsburgh, Bea fell in love with my dad, Harry, thought to be a "normal" guy. Haha. But it got her out of show business for good.

Anyway, they were really in love, had three kids, managed to raise us (I was probably particularly extremely harrowingly difficult to raise), and cleverly ended up as roomies at the Charles Morris nursing home in Squirrel Hill for many years until my father's death in late 2006.

His death broke her heart, and she never, ever recovered.

Looking for more from the Post-Gazette? Join PG+, our members-only web site. You'll get exclusive sports content, opinion, financial information, discounts from retailers and restaurants, and more. Our introduction to PG+ gives you all the details.