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I have waited a few days to write this, trying to get my thoughts in order because I know Marian Houser will be editing it somewhere.
The world, the Steubenville area, lost a true pioneer, leader, mom, friend and boss last week. And as she often said of the deaths of those whom she knew and loved, it diminishes you.
I am diminished. Marian was the city editor of the Herald-Star when I was hired as a know-it-all radio newsman who wanted to be a newspaperman at the ripe old age of 22 back in January of 1985.
I still remember the first time I saw her, sitting at her desk at the head of the newsroom. Jim Smith interviewed me in the little glass booth of an office at the end of the newsroom that was the managing editor’s office. And tough newsman though he was, it became obvious to me immediately upon being introduced to the woman at the city editor’s desk that it was her newsroom and we lived in it if she saw potential in us to be worthy of being at the Herald-Star.
She was businesslike and welcoming, complimenting me on being a local who wanted to tell the area’s stories in the Herald-Star. It didn’t take me long to recognize what a privilege, honor and burden that would be. She sent me out to cover the dedication of the Lovers Lane public housing complex. As the kid who thought he was going to become Woodward and Bernstein all rolled into one, I schmoozed with the dignitaries, went back to the paper and put my picture in the hands of Matz Malone or Ray Smith to develop and print while I went to my desk to write the caption. It went into the paper with my story, full of misspellings of the names of some of the dignitaries.
Marian didn’t call me out in front of the newsroom. She didn’t yell at me or stamp her feet. She did something far more effective, a handwritten note pointing out that while I had the makings of a good reporter, no one would want to deal with me if I didn’t even bother to care enough to learn how to spell their names correctly. She wrote that I needed to straighten up my act because surely I didn’t want to get Chuck Govey, our great publisher, involved with me.
When I read it, I seem to remember looking over at her desk and seeing her peer over those half-lens reading glasses she wore in those days. ‘Nuff said. Woodward would have to wait for his Pulitzer because he couldn’t spell the names of local leaders. (I still have that note in my Herald-Star memorabilia.)
Well, from there I was given a true finishing school on newspapering, tempered with personal anecdotes and an interest in my life from a woman I came to think of as a second mom during the next 35 years of being in that newsroom. She taught us youngsters that being part of the Herald-Star was not just about words on the pages. You asked the questions. You wrote in a way that made sense and told the readers what they needed to know, stripping away stuff that confused or was best saved for those follow-up stories. You are writing that follow-up, right?
She handled the death of two daughters and her husband and a son and the kicks life seemed to continually be giving her with a grace and faith that stood above just about everyone I’ve ever known, possibly excepting my real mom and my wife. She was fond of pointing out as the years went by that her boys -- Mark Law and I both started in January 1985 -- were older than she was when we were hired.
She could send you home talking to your image in the mirror. She could take you under her wing when your life was being tough. I remember when my dad was in the hospital and my mom needed someone to stay with her during the day that Marian, without hesitation, said she would be there. Somehow, it inspired my mom to put on her blue pinstriped suit, same one I remember Marian wearing on my hiring day, by herself when she was dealing with having a leg amputated. And, what was a moment of fear for me -- your work mom and your actual mom getting together with the potential of comparing notes on just what a putz you are -- turned out to be one of those moments of grace. They were sort of the same person somehow, one raising me and one putting me through adulthood finishing school. Not sure I ever fulfilled the work of either woman.
Marian took to my parents, made sure to talk to my dad regularly after Mom died.
When I left the Herald-Star after 35 years, after she had retired, I was afraid to talk to her because I abandoned her life’s work for, heaven forbid, television. But we had a long talk, one of our last deep ones as it turned out, about the reasons why I left and why she understood, understood more than I did at the time.
Marian pioneered journalism for women in the Steubenville area. She was covering fires and the ugly business of local politics and the courts when ladies were supposed to be in the society pages beginning in the early 1960s. If you think I am exaggerating the point, look for an episode of “Lou Grant” entitled “Henhouse,” from 1976. Even at that late date, women in the newsroom, were supposed to stay in their lane.
She helped so many people and organizations with her efforts that when a retirement party was given-- attention that she really didn’t want -- it was a community-wide affair. Her work wasn’t about her, after all, but the newspaper and community and family -- at home and at 401 Herald Square -- that she loved.
When I retired, I had been hoping to get a quick lunch put together for Marian to meet Jaime Baker, the embodiment of what I think Marian envisioned for women in the news: A strong leader with strong values and a community’s best interests in her heart, who isn’t above noting and laughing when she has bumbled in her wardrobe. (And I never managed to toss the contents of a whole bottle of Mylanta onto Jaime … I did that to Marian and after the initial shock from both of us, it became a source of shared laughter for years to come. Ask me and I can tell the whole story, but it involved her wanting to ease my heartburn one day and an open bottle of antacid stretched across the news desk.)
That lunch never happened. I never felt there was a time for the ever-busy Jaime to get together with the journalism pioneer Marian so they could spend time talking. Much like might have been the case with the ever-busy Marian when I started at the newspaper. But in my heart, my news world came full circle from Jan. 28, 1985, to March 7, 2025, with a strong woman in charge of my newsroom in both places.
It doesn’t surprise me that I don’t have a picture of Marian anywhere in all my files. She didn’t like pictures. I remember having to take a new column headshot of her one year, and it was one of the hardest chores ever assigned to me.
She is surely enjoying what she often described to me, especially after I lost my mother and father -- a great reunion with no more sorrow and a joy exceeding any family reunion or party on Earth. She always promised she’d say hello to my mom and dad. And probably a thousand other people just on the first day in her new life.
I was a better journalist for working with Marian. I am a better person, if I stop and think about not just her words but her actions in this life.
And so, she is enjoying that happy reunion, but all of us are, as she said, just a little diminished.
(Giannamore, a resident of Toronto, is a former reporter, business editor, news editor and city editor of the Herald-Star)