It probably wasn’t his old jogging habit that helped Murray Manson reach age 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 may have something to do with eating a healthier diet than the pastrami and kishke of his youth.
Although she jokes that talking about longevity could give her a kinehora (the Yiddish term is used to ward off the “evil eye”), at 99, Honey attributes her advanced years to good medical care. Her brother died from a heart attack at age 34 and her father met the same fate at age 48, but she had successful open-heart surgery after a heart attack in 2000. Five years later, she had a valve replacement performed by renowned cardiothoracic surgeon Jack Copeland.
“And for a long time, she had a good family doctor looking after her,” adds Murray, which Honey affirms with a delighted laugh.
An anesthesiologist who also loved general practice, including looking after neighbors’ minor illnesses, Murray 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 quite good,” he says of his driving, adding that in addition to obeying the rules of the road, “I consider every other driver a screwball.”
Married for 70 years, the Mansons have been together even longer. They grew up in the same neighborhood in Toronto 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 recounted to the AJP.
While their long lives may be attributed to luck, Murray says their long marriage comes down to compromise and respecting each other’s thoughts and feelings, since “we obviously don’t always reach the same conclusion.”
Murray was born in Bălți, Romania (now part of Moldava) and emigrated to Canada as a baby with his parents and older brother. Since U.S. quotas ruled out New York as their destination, the family hoped to settle in Toronto or Montreal, cities with large Jewish populations. 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-populous western provinces.
His mother couldn’t stand the cold in Winnipeg, so his father headed to Toronto to find work, eventually saving enough to send for the family.
Murray enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1941 at age 17. He served overseas as a radar technician for three and a half years and recalls a near-miss when he was 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 went AWOL (absent without leave) for a few days on his way to a new post at Elsham Wolds air base, which he knew to be cold, damp, and isolated from a previous posting.
When he turned up at Elsham Wolds, he was put in the base jail to await punishment from a new commanding officer, who turned out to be a fellow Jew from Toronto, the younger brother of Murray’s classmate Norman.
Instead of punishing him, the young officer transferred Murray to another base, where he had the good fortune of meeting a local doctor who sparked his interest in medicine.
His father, who Murray describes as “a humble bagel baker,” could not have put him through medical school, but the Royal Canadian Air Force paid a month of tuition for every month he’d served.
When he graduated from the Faculty of Medicine at the University of Toronto, he says, “My father was so proud.”
Honey retired from her nursing career in 1975 and devoted herself to volunteer work. When she gave up driving four years ago, she donated her car to the Safe Shift Estate Sale Store, which benefits the Greater Tucson Fire Foundation, the nonprofit organization behind the Firefighters Beyond Borders program that links firefighters in Tucson and Israel.
While she’s not driving, Honey is still spry 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 busy with multiple Jewish organizations in Tucson. She remains on the board of B’nai B’rith Covenant House, participating in meetings via Zoom, albeit with her camera intentionally turned off.
“They don’t see me, but they hear me,” she says, laughing.
She indulges her lifelong love of animals by giving small sums to charities — she saves the calendars they send for Covenant House — and caring for a cat, Precious, she rescued after a neighbor moved away and abandoned their pet. The Mansons’ younger son, Jonathan, who lives with them, shares her passion for cats, which Murray tolerates. Their older son, Brian, lives in Texas and their daughter, Wendy, lives in New York.
Although she doesn’t go out often these days, Honey mentions 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 drily. “I never had the desire to see it. I guess I should have taken my wife there.”
“Probably there’s a tour we can go on,” Honey replies, hopefully.
