Better Nate Than Lever

In a “Dirty Harry” movie, Clint Eastwood aimed his Smith & Wesson .44 magnum hand cannon with a culvert-sized barrel squarely between a hoodlum’s eyes, who fingered his own gun’s trigger momentarily, and deciding a stretch in the hoosegow was preferable to instant decapitation, handed over his peashooter pistol. Handcuffing the thug, Eastwood patted him on the back, and said, “Good decision, son — a man has got to know his limitations.” That’s good advice for anyone. Folks who know their limitations and play the hand dealt them by fate without complaint enjoy less stressful, happier lives than folks who don’t. In Leland, my Mississippi Delta hometown, Nate Nuckolls was just such a man. Uneducated, unassuming, unimaginative, and content with his place in life, he worked as a service station handyman, wiping windshields, pumping gas, fixing flats, rotating tires, and checking oil. He didn’t talk much, but the few words he uttered, counted.