Walt Whitman famously wrote about singing the song of oneself—an embrace of every breath, every triumph, every contradiction, and every mile traveled under the sun. If anyone lived his life as a song—loud, vibrant, and completely unapologetic—it was my dad.
My dad, Nurhan, was born in Istanbul on March 20, 1929, to Simpat and Hrantui Hacmanukyan, deeply proud of his Armenian heritage. Growing up along the waters of Istanbul, he was at heart a true child of the Mediterranean—someone who carried a lifelong love for the sea, the beach, and fresh fish, passions that stayed with him for nearly a century. Walking those historic streets as a boy, he would look up and marvel at the magnificent structures around him, knowing early on that he wanted to build things of his own. Guided by that boyhood dream, he attended Robert College in Istanbul before making the bold journey across the Atlantic, immigrating in 1956 through Ellis Island in New York. Determined to carve his path as a structural engineer in this new land—and armed with the scrappy, fighting spirit he honed as a young boxer—he continued his education at the University of Alabama and the University of Kansas.
While in New York, fate stepped in on the subways when he crossed paths with my mother, Doris, who had immigrated from Germany. That chance encounter sparked a lifetime together; they were married on June 28, 1959. Crossing the river to put down roots and establish our family’s home base in New Jersey, they started our family—first welcoming my older brother Ara, and then me.
From there, his engineering career unfolded on a truly global scale. During the Vietnam War, he worked as a contractor for the U.S. government in the heat of Thailand and the Philippines. Returning to New Jersey in the early 1970s, he joined PSE&G—the state's cornerstone utility company—soon transferring to Jacksonville, Florida, to work on the pioneering Offshore Power Systems (OPS) project designing a floating nuclear plant. When that ambitious initiative began winding down amid the shifting energy landscape of the Three Mile Island era, instead of simply returning to New Jersey, he set off on a bold new adventure: taking an opportunity sight unseen to work for the Libyan oil company Umm Al Jawabi in Tripoli. From 1975 to 1982, that overseas posting was a natural return to his roots—giving him the chance to re-embrace the Mediterranean lifestyle of his youth, while embarking on grand adventures across Europe and North Africa and forging lifelong friendships. In 1982, he returned home to the States and reunited with PSE&G, where the capstone of his career was serving as a lead structural engineer on the massive Merrill Creek Reservoir Dam project in New Jersey.
Following that crowning achievement, he retired in 1989. After decades of calculating loads, pouring foundations, and traveling the world, he traded blueprints for the greens of Ponte Vedra, becoming an avid golfer and returning to the coastal sunshine he always cherished. Together, he and my mother fell in love with life on the open sea—embarking on over sixty cruises throughout their retirement, seeing the world hand-in-hand, and soaking in every show and sunset along the way.
For decades, that was his world. But time eventually catches up with us all; we slow down. Five years ago, he lost his beloved wife of 61 years—my mother, Doris—taking a huge piece of his foundation with her. And just last year, he endured the heartbreak of losing his oldest son, my brother Ara, far too soon at only 62.
When my parents started building their life in this country, they had no safety net, and no extended family waiting on the shore. Once Ara and I joined them, that was it: just the four of us. Period. No one else.
Looking back today as the last of that original four, the feeling is completely surreal. It is an odd, disorienting feeling that words cannot easily capture—the quiet shock of realizing that the mantle of patriarch has suddenly passed to me, and that I am now the sole keeper of memories that once belonged to the four of us. But while that original circle has closed, my dad's song didn't stop—it grew richer and fuller through the family he leaves behind. He is survived with love by me, my wife Lilit, and our daughters, Aimee and Isabella; and by Ara’s wife, Belinda, their son Thomas and his fiancée Alexandra. Standing beside 97 extraordinary years and the beautiful family that carries his name forward, sorrow does not get the final say today. Celebration does.
All of that speaks to what he built and where he traveled. But accomplishments, dates, and milestones only give you the outline—they don't tell you who he was as a person.
My dad went through nearly a century with music running through his veins. There’s no doubt in my mind that is where my own lifelong passion for music came from. To him, silence was just dead air waiting for a beat. Given the choice between watching a movie or tuning in to a televised concert, the concert won every single time, without hesitation.
And whenever music played, sitting still wasn't an option—whether it was a live band on a cruise ship or a record spinning at home, he was up and moving.
Even in his nineties, with an unmistakable twinkle in his eye, he never tired of recounting stories from his youth of slow dancing cheek-to-cheek with the ladies to the smooth voice of his favorite singer, Nat King Cole. Yet he didn't even require an audience or a partner; if a rhythm took hold of him, he’d sway right across the living room all on his own. Music was simply his first language.
He loved the classics—Nat King Cole, Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck, and of course Frank Sinatra, who was the key to understanding who he was.
My father was not a diplomat. He came equipped with absolutely zero filter. If a thought crossed his mind, it came out of his mouth—often to the shock, amusement, or outright exasperation of whoever was nearby. He had an offbeat sense of humor that could leave you scratching your head, paired with the stubborn resolve of a man who decided long ago that no one else would hold the pen to his life story. He knew what he wanted, he went after it, and he lived every chapter completely on his own terms. Sinatra’s "My Way" wasn't just a record on a shelf; it was his personal creed.
Even his final chapter closed with poetic grace.
When his time came to rest on October 20, 2026, he went peacefully. And in a moment that felt scripted by fate itself, he took his final breath just as Engelbert Humperdinck’s "The Last Waltz" was softly playing over the speaker. For a man whose soul belonged to the rhythm of life, you could not imagine a more fitting coda.
A few days later, still trying to absorb the quiet of a world without him, I got into the car, put my classic rock playlist on shuffle, and pressed play. The very first track that came through the speakers was Led Zeppelin’s "Stairway to Heaven." You can chalk that up to random algorithms if you like, but I like to believe it was the universe speaking to me.
He left an indelible impression on everyone who crossed his path. Whether someone knew him for fifty years or chatted with him for five minutes, they remembered him. He was vibrant, headstrong, passionate, and larger than life.
To borrow the words of his favorite singer: my dad was, and will always remain … Unforgettable.
Here’s to 97 years, Dad. Your song will never end.
—Lloyd Manukian
In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to the Armenian Church of Jacksonville: https://armenianchurchjacksonville.com/donation.htm
