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.
Nate’s exact opposite, Laverne Lever, was a classic air-headed blonde, overly anxious, overly educated, and being a lawyer, overly talkative. She brought to mind Will Rogers’ observation that educated folks are just plain dumb when off the subjects in which they’re educated.
One morning, Laverne wheeled her long black Lincoln into Nate’s service station and instructed him to rotate the tires. Nate nodded and asked her to park the car and leave the keys in it.
“Make sure it’s ready by noon,” she commanded. “I’m going to Memphis for a big meeting this afternoon.”
When Laverne returned, the car had not moved. Angrily, she berated Nate, wanting to know why her orders had not been carried out.
“You locked the car and left the keys in the ignition,” he drawled. Laverne went from livid to limp.
“Oh no! I’ve got to get on the road right this minute,” she moaned, staring helplessly at Nate. “What am I going to do?”
“Well, ma’am, I can unlock your car, but I didn’t want to do so without your permission,” Nate replied.
“Please — do whatever you have to do,” the addled attorney wailed.
As she fidgeted, Nate straightened a clothes hanger, bent a hook in one end, gently inserted it between the glass and the rubber seal, worked it down to the door lock, hooked the knob, and pulled upward slowly. When the door unlocked, Laverne became ecstatic, congratulated him profusely for his ingenuity, and hopped behind the wheel.
Before speeding off, she rolled down the window and asked Nate for the clothes hanger. As he handed it over, she twittered, “I’ll put this under the seat so I’ll have it in case I lock the keys in my car again.”
Casually shifting his tobacco cud from one jowl to the other, Nate stared at her with a wrinkled brow, wagged his head in disbelief, shrugged his shoulders, and turning to walk away, muttered, “Lady, you might ought to think about that a minute.”
I imagine by now y’all have figured out the moral of this story: Better Nate than Lever.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
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.
