I married into a family of farmers. Dagma holds the cherished legacy. "Marianna's Peace" heirloom tomato.
Named for Marianne Worschech Tibbetts (1927-2013)

I was given seeds many years ago by Marianne's sister who lived in Munich, Germany. Marianne's family were farmers from Bohemia, now the Czech Republic. Her life on the farm ended during World War II, in May of 1940, when the Russians came with a truck to her school and loaded all the children to transport them to a labor camp.

Marianna, and five other girls, escaped by jumping from the moving truck. Only two of them survived. As she crossed the Czech border she was shot in the leg, and yet she traveled by foot with her girlfriend through the Austrian Alps to Vienna. With the help of her friends she was able to continue to the town of Weiden in Bavaria. Marianne lost all contact with her parents, brother and sister, but through years of diligent searching and the aid of The Red Cross she found them in 1955. She fell in love, and married an American soldier in 1957 and moved to Spokane, Washington where they raised four children.

"Marianna's Peace," named by me in tribute to Marianne's resilient, generous and wonderful life, is an indeterminate, potato-leaf variety that produces yields of 1-2 lb., pink, beefsteak tomatoes with exceptionally rich, complex flavors reminiscent of the finest of those "old-fashioned" tomato flavors, the memory of which is the stuff-of-dreams for all tomato lovers. In taste trials at the Carmel TomatoFest with attending friends and chefs, "Marianna's Peace" was judged the "best tasting" tomato.

Originally distributed exclusively by TomatoFest.com, seeds for "Marianna's Peace" are now distributed by many seed companies in the U.S. It would please Marianna that her family's farming heritage is continued through her daughter, Dagma Lacey, owner of TomatoFest Organic Heirloom Tomato Seeds.

Marianna provided me a mother experience I had lacked as a child. I was invited into her role as 'mom' and her Worschech Tibbetts family rituals. She allowed me to play and tease-to contradict and cajole her in humor. In many ways I was her 'suitor' as well as her daughter's. (She was fifteen years older than me, and I was fifteen years older than her daughter.) I fondly recall her, holding my face between her hands, kissing my cheeks and whispering German into my ears. Indeed, German had become a romance language from listening to her and Dagma cooing to one another in her native language.

I recall Dagma sharing with me a time, years earlier, when we were at a high school football game. Marianna asked Dagma, "So, daughter, what are you going to do about Gary? Are you planning to marry him? "I don't know. I'm not sure. I'm frightened to get married again."
"Well, if you're not going to marry him, I will."

Some years later. After Dagma had moved to California to live with me—after Marianna's health was deteriorating—Dagma and I decided we had better make a visit with her mom happen.

"Marianna, please come to California for a visit," I implored.
"I can't make such a trip," she replied.
I could tell that she was still pissed at me for moving her daughter Dagma from Spokane to Carmel a few months prior. They needed to be together again to heal the soreness of separation.

This would probably be the last 'trip to Bountiful' she might take since her depleted health was becoming more of a challenge. But after being turned down several times I finally said, "We will drive to Spokane to pick you up and drive you here. No effort on your part. It will be an adventure you will enjoy."

And so, we did. Dagma and I packed the Mercedes with goodies, including a cassette I created with Marianna's favorite songs and singers, including Perry Como, Sinatra and Eddy Arnold. When I arrived at her home, I ceremoniously opened the back door of the car as we sat in her driveway and invited her in. By now she was fully enrolled and full of smiles. She sat behind us in the back seat looking like a schoolgirl going off to college-I asked her to stretch her legs onto the padded leather console in the front between us-I pressed 'play' and we were on our way...to California.

Through Washington and Oregon, we took many-a-splendid scenic turn-offs. There was music and laughter. Her spirits were high. As we approached San Francisco I called out to the back seat, "Marianna, ever seen the Golden Gate Bridge?"
"No."
I took the next exit. And as we drove across the bridge I called out, "Let's walk across the bridge."
"No, I couldn't do that."
"Well, let's find out," as I pulled into the parking area. "Let's go!"
By the time the three of us were half-way across the bridge she asked for my cell phone and started calling her Washington friends to share her thrill-so many sailboats below it looked like a sea of whitecaps.

My mission was to share with Marianna as many new experiences as possible during the next couple of weeks: we wined-and-dined her around town and introduced her to favorite chefs; I cooked delicious meals for her; we dressed up to go dancing at the Lodge at Pebble Beach; we drove the coast and hiked mountain trails in Big Sur high over the Pacific ("I can't do that," she said. But she did.); she walked the sandy shore under Bixby Bridge and played in the surf like a child, kicking her feet up in joy; we continued south to Esalen Institute to soak in the hot baths hanging over cliff's edge; and she became a little girl again on a swing that soared out over the cliffs. "Look at me." A joy-filled, intimate, bonding experience for all of us.

Yes, Marianna, you are missed. And I see you in many forms- in many moments- still and fleeting. Thank you. Thank you.