At 100 and 99 Murray and Honey Manson are going strong

It probably wasn’t his old jogging habit that helped Murray Manson reach the age of 100 in August. That just ruined his knees, he says.

Murray, who now walks with a cane, attributes his longevity to luck.

His wife, Honey, suspects it has something to do with a healthier diet than the pastrami and kishke of his youth.

Although she jokes that talking about longevity could benefit her kinehora (the Yiddish term is used to ward off the “evil eye”), at 99, Honey attributes her old age to good medical care. Her brother died of a heart attack at age 34 and her father suffered the same fate at age 48, but she underwent successful open-heart surgery after a heart attack in 2000. Five years later, she had a valve replacement performed by a renowned cardiothoracic surgeon. Jack Copeland.

“And for a long time she had a good doctor who took care of her,” Murray adds, which Honey confirms with a delighted laugh.

Murray, an anesthesiologist who also enjoyed family medicine, including caring for neighbors’ minor illnesses, decided to let his medical license expire this year.

But he has an Amateur Expert Class ham radio license, a hobby that keeps him busy, with one transceiver in the garage and another in his car.

“My coordination and vision are pretty good,” he says of his driving, adding that in addition to obeying traffic rules, he also “considers every other driver an idiot.”

The Mansons have been married for 70 years and have been together even longer. They grew up in the same Toronto neighborhood and dated for five years after Honey graduated from nursing school before tying the knot. It took a little push from Honey, as she previously told the AJP.

While their long lives can be attributed to luck, Murray says their long marriage comes down to making compromises and respecting each other’s thoughts and feelings, because “obviously we don’t always come to the same conclusion.”

Murray was born in Bălți, Romania (now part of Moldova) and emigrated to Canada as an infant with his parents and older brother. Because the American quota excluded New York as a destination, the family hoped to settle in Toronto or Montreal, cities with a large Jewish population. Instead, they were initially sent to Winnipeg, he says, using the Yiddish word “aftselakhis”, which means out of spite. In this case, however, the government’s motivation was to send more immigrants to the less populated western provinces.

His mother couldn’t stand the cold in Winnipeg, so his father left for Toronto to look for work and eventually saved enough to provide for the family.

Murray enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1941 at the age of 17. He served abroad as a radar technician for three and a half years and recalls a near miss while stationed at St. Leonards-on-Sea in England. Three German Stukas dropped bombs on the base; the one that landed near him was a dud.

“I believe in miracles,” he says.

Another miracle, or at least a stunning coincidence, happened after he was away for a few days (without leave) on his way to a new post at Elsham Wolds air base, which he knew was cold, damp and isolated from a previous post.

When he showed up at Elsham Wolds, he was put in the base prison to await punishment from a new commander, who turned out to be a fellow Jew from Toronto, the younger brother of Murray’s classmate Norman.

Rather than punish him, the young officer transferred Murray to another base, where he was fortunate to meet a local doctor who sparked his interest in medicine.

His father, who Murray describes as “a simple bagel baker,” could not have put him through medical school, but the Royal Canadian Air Force paid one month’s tuition for every month he served.

When he graduated from the University of Toronto Medical School, he says, “My father was so proud.”

Honey retired from her nursing career in 1975 and devoted herself to volunteer work. When she retired from driving four years ago, she donated her car to the Safe Shift Estate Sale Store, which benefits the Greater Tucson Fire Foundation, the nonprofit behind the Firefighters Beyond Borders program that connects firefighters in Tucson and Israel with connects each other.

While she’s not driving, Honey is still brave enough to insist on cleaning her Foothills home herself, including washing the floors on her hands and knees.

“It’s my exercise,” says Honey, who rode horses and skied when she and Murray lived in Rochester, New York.

Before the COVID-19 lockdown, Honey was involved with multiple Jewish organizations in Tucson. She remains on the board of B’nai B’rith Covenant House and participates in meetings via Zoom, albeit with her camera deliberately turned off.

“They don’t see me, but they hear me,” she says, laughing.

She indulges her lifelong love of animals by donating small amounts to charities – she keeps the calendars they send to Covenant House – and by caring for a cat, Precious, whom she rescued after a neighbor moved and their pet had been abandoned. The Mansons’ youngest son, Jonathan, who lives with them, shares her passion for cats, which Murray tolerates. Their oldest son, Brian, lives in Texas and their daughter, Wendy, lives in New York.

Although she doesn’t go out much these days, Honey says she would like to visit the Grand Canyon, something the Mansons haven’t done in the 30 years they’ve lived in Arizona.

“I understand it’s quite a geological formation,” Murray says dryly. “I never had the desire to see it. I guess I should have taken my wife there.”

“There’s probably a tour we can do,” Honey answers hopefully.