50 years writing for the Hannibal Courier-Post: Things I learned along the way

November 10, 2025

Mary Lou Montgomery, circa 1976, assembling the “clip files” for the Hannibal Courier-Post. Before the advent of computers, this was the newspaper’s means of cataloguing stories for future reference. The files are now in the possession of the Hannibal Free Public Library. HCP file photo.

MARY LOU MONTGOMERY

Fifty years ago, this very month, I accepted an invitation from Sandy Luipersbeck, Courier-Post Community Editor, to interview for a part-time proofreading position with the Hannibal Courier-Post. 

Sandy and I went to high school together; she was an editor and I was a reporter for the school newspaper: The Black and Red, which was under the leadership of June Barker (1921-2008). Sandy knew I had the basic language skills necessary to be a newspaper proofreader, but I had a lot of doubt. 

The next day, at the appointed hour, I arrived for an interview with the editor.

Bob Ross, tall and lanky, with an untrimmed mustache and a wiry shock of unruly red hair, stood as I approached his desk for what I thought would be an interview. Right there in the midst of the newsroom, where reporters were conducting phone interviews and the never-ending clatter of the  AP wire ticker was a constant, he looked in my direction and posed one succinct question: “When can you start?”

Surprised at the brevity of my interview, and overjoyed at the opportunity ahead, I hesitated only briefly before answering, “Monday?”

I had the rest of the week and weekend to obtain a baby sitter (Gail Terrill, who lived on Grand Avenue, advertised in that afternoon’s newspaper edition) and to pull together a post-pregnancy wardrobe. With the help of my mother, Mary Louise Spaun, I found five shirts and three pairs of cotton slacks at Leon and Juanita Smith’s trendy clothing store, The Outfitters, at 223 Broadway.

The following Monday morning, Nov. 17, 1975, I started to work at 200 N. Third, at $2.50 an hour. I wondered every minute: “What qualifies ME to find mistakes made by these Watergate-era journalism school grads?”

Then, the very next day, I heard the booming voice of “the local news” within those newsroom walls.  Gene Hoenes, anchor for KHQA-TV, was also a part-time Courier-Post reporter. There he was, in the same room with me. As a life-long newspaper reader and voracious news aficionado, it was at that very moment I realized I was where I was supposed to be.

Fifty years later, ink still courses through my veins. Though I retired as editor in 2014 after 39 years with the newspaper, I’ve never stopped writing for the Courier-Post.

The list of history and feature stories I’ve compiled for readers of the northeast quadrant of Missouri is so long that it would figuratively take a telescope to view from one end to the other.

But what comes to my mind as I mark this significant anniversary is not the legacy that I’ve created via this story-telling venue, but rather how I have been shaped by the people I interviewed and the stories I shared along the way.

I wonder, sometimes, who I would be today if Sandy Luipersbeck had not called to invite me in for an interview. Until she died last year, I never stopped thanking her for the life-long gift of community journalism that she gave to me.

Some of the things I learned along the way:

Sylvia Harlow, my fourth-grade teacher and subsequent life-long friend, taught me when gardening, to never waste even a teaspoon full of topsoil, because it is one of the earth’s most precious commodities.

Hurley Hagood, my long-time friend and history mentor, taught me to be especially careful with facts in history stories, because mistakes will be re-quoted as fact by future generations.

I got an early taste of visual art during an interview at the Cardiff Hill home of noted artist Hettie Marie Andrews, who had a life-size painting of a nude male on the wall behind the couch where I sat.

Kermit Hildahl, horticulturalist for the University of Missouri Extension, was always my go-to expert, and taught me gardening basics which I still adhere to, to this day.

I was honored to be able to write retirement stories for, among others, Mary Wiehe (1909-1996), life-long art instructor, Jack Smashey (1914-1994), long-time Hannibal fire chief, and Dr. Francis Burns (1915-1991), an obstetrician. I wish I could remember how many babies Dr. Burns told me he had delivered. (And I wish I had the collection of photos that Jack Smashey took during his years in Hannibal! They would make a wonderful local history book.)

Miss Mary Carter, a centenarian, taught me a life lesson: Allow people to speak with their own voice, rather than white-washing their words for print. Every voice is unique, and it matters.

Judge John Ogle dressed as Santa each Christmas at the Marion County Courthouse at Hannibal. He and his clerk, Marlene Krewson, were kind and patient with me as I learned the reporting ropes.

Long-time Hannibal attorney, Bill Partee, took me aside once and told me that while my father wasn’t the smartest attorney around, he was … Oh, I don’t remember what he said after that, because this was a backhanded compliment. Wait, my father wasn’t the smartest?

Judge Ron McKenzie selected me to be the inaugural Cameras in the Courtroom liaison for the Tenth Judicial Circuit. Other reporters had to come to me with their media requests. That helped me immensely when I wanted to “scoop” the other media. I always knew what they were up to!

As a young reporter, I responded to a house fire in the Hannibal bottoms with Otis Howell, who had been taking photos for the Courier-Post since before I was born. Flames were showing when we arrived, and I was so excited to get up close to the fire scene and catch the action. But he was cool and collected. “Hurry!” I insisted, nudging him along and encouraging him to take multiple photos. He retained his composure, snapping a single image. “When you’re good,” he told me, “you only need to take one.” Touché.

As a hard-news reporter, I went head-to-head with newshounds from KHMO Radio: Mary Griffith, Ralph Bristol and Chuck McPheeters. KHMO’s noon news always played in the Courier-Post newsroom, and I’m proud to say I was able to hold my own, although I was probably pedaling twice as fast in order to keep up.

Roy Hark, assistant fire chief at the time, knew that I was competing with the three previously named ace reporters. He put a helmet on my head, and let me go into a still-smouldering building on Fourth Street - Pat Rayl’s house - in order to take photos and get “color” for my story. His trust in me to helped me gain trust in myself.

During those early reporting days, I learned the difference between a winch and a wench.

A winch is a mechanical device that is used to pull in (wind up) or let out (wind out) the tension of a rope or wire rope. (Wikipedia)

A wench is a young woman of ill fame. (Webster’s Dictionary.)

I learned (post publication) that a winch - not a wench - was used to pull a fire truck out of a ditch on an icy day.

A caller to the newsroom the next morning: “Who was that wench who pulled the fire truck out of the ditch?”

In 1981, Betty Nickell, long-time public health nurse, introduced me to Elizabeth Barkley, who had graduated from the Training School for Nurses at Levering Hospital in 1932. Miss Barkley was of my grandmother’s generation, and remembered Kathryn Glascock Robinson, who died too young, long before I was born. “I remember those Glascock girls,” Miss Barkley told me. “They came to (Mount Zion) church, all wearing great big hats,” while she encircled her head with her hands for emphasis. I cherish that mental image to this day.

Roberta Hagood, who compiled a series of invaluable history books during her generation, taught me how to index a book by using actual index cards. I have modified the process, but I’m still devoting the same care and dedication to indexing my books that she did. Roberta continued to write history stories for the Courier-Post well into her golden years, taking her electric typewriter with her when she relocated to a retirement home.

Jean Otten Moore, who recently passed at the age of 101, was my eyes and ears for her generation. She taught me that Terrace Lane - out close to Turner School - was originally paved with pink shells, scraps from a South Hannibal button factory. And she remembered, from her childhood, the smell of ether in the medical office of Dr. Mary Ross (1868-1939) at Fifth and Broadway.

Susan Clayton Stark was a generation ahead of me. We were good friends as well as distant Gentry cousins. Susan and I went to the Governor’s Mansion in Jefferson City, at the invitation of Carolyn Bond, Missouri First Lady, who was debuting a cookbook, “Past and Repast.” Susan and I arrived early for the event, and found parking street side. I asked Susan if we should go knock on the door, and her reply was classic: “Mrs. Bond probably still has curlers in her hair!”

Dr. Purification Florendo was my doctor when I was the food editor in the 1980s, and we talked recipes every time we met. She taught me how to stir-fry chicken and vegetables in a wok.

I interviewed Clarence Schaffer, who operated a smoke house at 308 Broadway. He was among the last of Hannibal’s old “tobacco workers.” He drew ink drawings of the men who played cards in his shop's back room. I used to have copies, but I’ve lost track of their whereabouts. I believe one of the men was Crawford Smith, long-time Hannibal funeral director. Maybe those photos (and the scrapbook they were in) will turn up again one day.

During my food editor days, Betty Jean Clark gave me a copy of Fleischmann’s Bake-it-Easy Yeast Book. I’ve used that now torn-and-tattered book regularly since 1983. There is not a bad recipe in that book.

Jan Golian shared with me her recipe for crescent rolls, which is now my signature Thanksgiving roll recipe.

Linda Clark obtained for me a copy of “Better Homes and Gardens” New Cook Book. My earlier copy, a gift at my wedding in 1969, had deteriorated to almost nothing from food spills and constant use.

A coworker, Joanne Hollister, taught me to always crack an egg over a separate bowl, not directly into the main mixing bowl, in case something was wrong with the egg.

Lloyd Hemme taught me how to make vanilla, by soaking a vanilla bean in a bottle of vodka.

Judy Shepard shared a recipe for homemade marshmallows. Did you know you can make your own marshmallows?

Arsene Burton, hostess extraordinaire, taught me how to make omelets in a boil-safe baggies.

A woman I was interviewing for a food feature pointed out a “fairy ring” of toadstools in her back yard. She said it was a bad omen. That weekend, her husband died.

George Hicks, the furrier, was the first person I knew diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. His wife, Maxine, needing a respite, invited me over for a luncheon at their house, while friends took her husband out to lunch. Another notable Hannibal woman invited me up to her house, where she was taking care of her husband, also afflicted with the tragic mind disease. He was afraid of the television, I remember. I was humbled by these interactions.

Paul Lindhorst was bookkeeper for the Hannibal Courier-Post back when we received a printed pay check each Friday. When Friday morning rolled around and the weekly paychecks were not  yet available, I said to him: “But I NEED to get the check in the bank.”

His succinct reply: “Don’t ever spend your money until you have it in your hand.” Wise financial advice.

Harold P. Coston was administrator of Levering Hospital in the early 1980s. When I arrived at his office for a story interview, he greeted me with his knowledge that I was born at Levering. Apparently, he looked into my mother’s files! Even back before HIPAA rules were established, this didn’t seem quite kosher to me.

I remember a discussion with leaders of a Hannibal woman’s club, who insisted I use my married name in the club directory: Mrs. Edward P. Montgomery. Even as a young pup, this didn’t seem right. I insisted, and prevailed, in using the same name I’ve used on every Courier-Post byline for 50 years: Mary Lou Montgomery. I changed my last name when I married, but I wasn’t about to change my first name, too.

My brother, Becker Spaun, (1949-2024) was an expert on street locations, a key qualification for firefighters in the days before GPS. I would rely upon him to tell me where streets started and stopped, picked up in another block and where they ultimately ended, as only Hannibal Streets can do. The last street conversation we had before his death in 2024 was Webb Street, to the north of Mark Twain Avenue. He drove there on my behalf one icy January day, and took photos for a history story I was working on.

Many journalists passed through the newsroom at 200 N. Third, contributing their talents for a season, before moving on to more lucrative fields. But two people in particular stayed the course with me: Danny Henley and Bev Darr. The three of us shared the same community values and dedication to the print product. We had each others’ backs, and for that loyalty and and camaraderie, I am eternally grateful.

I made plenty of mistakes during the course of my career, as well as in life, to be sure. I tried to rectify those mistakes as gracefully as possible, and to steer clear of those murky waters in the future.

When I was the food editor, the sweet women who were loyal followers of my “You asked for it!” column would let me know when I made a mistake. “Honey,” (that’s what they typically called me,) “I think you meant to add two eggs to that recipe, not two dozen eggs.”

When I later went “news-side” to the city editor job, people tended to call me things that were not quite as endearing.

When writing about people of color, my good friend Rhonda Brown Hall kept me on the right track regarding diversity standards. Rhonda died early this year, and I miss our long talks, while I sought her reassurance that my history stories were on the up and up.

Finally, words from within my family, that will always resonate in head:

Mom: (Mary Louise Spaun 1916-1983) “Honey, you’re trying to do too much.”

Daddy: (William B. Spaun, a lawyer, 1913-1991) “Never put anything in writing that you don’t want the whole world to know.”

Note: Mary Lou Montgomery retired as editor of the Hannibal Courier-Post in 2014, and since that time has served the newspaper as a freelance writer.

The Black and Red newspaper staff, Hannibal High School, 1969. Pictured are, front row from left, Laura Hopwood, Terry Fields, Sandy Luipersbeck and Chris Minor. Second row, Mary Lou Spaun, Valeta Snell, Terrie Gwinner, Marcia Leap, Lynn McGee; third row, Vickie Daniels, Donna Caldwell, Laura Sweets, Rosemary Subka, Lynda Hopwood. Fourth row, John Hirner (partially hidden), Marvin Madden, Don Larson, Bill McClish. Richard Schwartz was absent when the photo was taken. The first story that Mary Lou (Spaun) Montgomery wrote for publication was for this newspaper, a feature on the high school’s first building trade’s class, led by Bill Jameson.

Mary Lou Montgomery, left, and Susan Clayton Stark, looking over the proof of a food page, October 1994. A memorable quote from Susan: If you’r going to be a bear, be a grizzly bear. If you’re going to be blue, be bright blue.”

In January 2006, the Courier-Post published an interview, conducted by Rhonda Hall Brown and transcribed by Mary Lou Montgomery, with Miss Mary Carter, pictured at right, who told, in her own words, the life path she had followed. On subsequent birthdays, Mary Lou Montgomery, left, stopped by for a visit with Hannibal’s most notable centenarian, who lived at 1916 Spruce. Miss Mary had celebrated her 102nd birthday on Aug. 8, 2005. She died on April 8, 2012, at the age of 108.

J. Hurley Hagood, left, Roberta Roland Hagood, center, and Mary Lou Montgomery, right, shared a byline on a book about Hannibal's three bridges: "Hannibal Bridges the Mississippi," published in in conjunction with the construction of Hannibal's new bridge, which was completed in 2000. The three are pictured standing under the bridge deck, still under construction.

Sylvia Apostol Harlow (1911-2011) left, and Mary Lou Montgomery.

Becker Spaun (1949-2024), left, hired on with the Hannibal Fire Deparment on Feb. 28, 1975, and retired as assistant chief and training officer on April 3, 1995. Jack Smashey, right, retired as chief in 1980.