Earl & Clyde: The Great Wool Festival Scheme

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There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who make a plan before doing something, and those who just ask Earl McCracken what he thinks.

Unfortunately for Clyde Jenkins, his best friend Earl belongs to the second category.

It all started on a Tuesday morning at the little diner just outside Falmouth, where Earl was enjoying his third cup of coffee and explaining to anyone within earshot how he had once caught a catfish so large it nearly pulled his uncle's fishing canoe into the Licking River.

Clyde had heard this story at least 47 times.

"That fish was every bit of six feet long," Earl insisted, holding his hands apart as if measuring a telephone pole.

"Funny," Clyde replied. "Last time you told it, that fish was four feet long."

"That's because I was being modest."

Clyde shook his head and took another bite of his biscuit.

Earl was a lifelong country boy, a self-proclaimed handyman, part-time philosopher, and full-time expert on subjects he had never actually studied. He owned a faded red pickup truck that made a mysterious knocking noise, a dog named Possum that answered to almost nothing, and a collection of tools that had never been used for their intended purpose.

Clyde, on the other hand, believed in reading instructions, checking the weather, and occasionally admitting when he didn't know something. Unfortunately, he also had a weakness: he was easily talked into Earl's schemes.

That morning, Earl slapped a crumpled newspaper onto the table.

"The Wool Festival is this weekend," he announced.

"Yes, Earl. It's been on the calendar for months."

"Think about it, Clyde. Thousands of people. Food. Music. Sheep. Opportunity."

"Opportunity for what?"

Earl leaned forward.

"Fame."

Clyde stared at him.

"Last week you tried to sell homemade fishing bait out of a mayonnaise jar."

"And I would've sold every bit of it if that raccoon hadn't got into the cooler."

That raccoon, incidentally, had become Earl's sworn enemy after stealing three sandwiches, a pair of work gloves, and what Earl described as "a perfectly good half-gallon of sweet tea." Earl was convinced the animal was intelligent enough to be planning organized theft.

By lunchtime, Earl had decided they were entering the Wool Festival's unofficial sheep-herding competition.

There was only one small problem.

Neither man had ever herded a sheep.

"How hard can it be?" Earl asked.

"They're sheep, Earl. Not shopping carts."

Earl waved off the concern. "Animals respect confidence."

"Possum doesn't even respect you."

Possum, who had been sleeping beneath the picnic table, opened one eye and went back to sleep.

By Thursday, Earl had borrowed a sheep from a neighbor named Marvin, who agreed to lend them one under the condition that they return it in the same condition.

Earl named the sheep General Patton.

Clyde thought this was a bad sign.

Their training began in Earl's backyard. Earl fashioned a makeshift sheep pen using old fence boards, two lawn chairs, and a length of rope that had previously been used to secure a washing machine in the back of the pickup.

General Patton immediately escaped.

Within twenty minutes, the sheep was standing in the middle of the county road, Possum was chasing it, and Earl was yelling instructions that sounded suspiciously like military commands.

"Left flank! Hold the line! Clyde, you're losing the perimeter!"

"I'm losing my mind," Clyde shouted.

Eventually, Marvin arrived in his tractor, retrieved the sheep, and informed Earl that perhaps farming wasn't his calling.

Earl disagreed.

By Friday morning, however, he had a new idea.

They would attend the Kentucky Wool Festival not as competitors, but as entrepreneurs. Earl had decided they could sell a new product: premium sheep fertilizer, packaged in old coffee cans and marketed as "Earl's Natural Growth Enhancer."

Clyde asked whether Earl had actually collected any fertilizer.

Earl looked offended.

"Do you think I would launch a business without inventory?"

Clyde looked into the bed of the red pickup.

It was full of coffee cans.

He decided not to ask.

That weekend, the two friends headed toward the festival grounds near Kincaid Lake. The Kentucky Wool Festival was celebrating another year of Appalachian heritage, crafts, music, food, and all things wool. Earl was particularly excited about the food vendors.

He had already declared that he intended to eat his way through the entire festival, beginning with a funnel cake and ending with whatever smelled best.

Clyde had one goal: keep Earl from getting arrested, injured, or banned from another community event.

It was a tall order.

Their first stop was a craft booth selling handmade wool hats. Earl tried one on, looked in a mirror, and announced that he looked like a man who owned several thousand acres.

The woman running the booth politely informed him that the hat cost $38.

Earl took it off immediately.

"That's highway robbery," he muttered. "I could buy a whole sheep for that."

"Can you?" Clyde asked.

"Well, not a good sheep."

They spent the next hour sampling food, listening to music, and watching demonstrations. Earl became fascinated by the sheep-shearing demonstration and loudly announced that he could do the same thing with his electric hedge trimmer.

Clyde physically turned him away from the demonstration area.

At one point, Earl spotted a booth selling homemade jams and jellies. He purchased a jar of blackberry jam, claiming he needed it for a business idea involving breakfast sandwiches and roadside advertising.

Clyde reminded him that he still hadn't sold a single can of fertilizer.

"Every great business starts somewhere," Earl replied.

"Usually with a plan."

"That's why you're not an entrepreneur."

By the time the sun began to set, Earl had purchased a wooden walking stick, two bags of kettle corn, a jar of jam, and a novelty T-shirt that read: I'M JUST HERE FOR THE SHEEP.

Clyde had purchased nothing.

On the ride home, the red pickup began making a louder knocking noise than usual.

Clyde glanced at the dashboard.

"Earl, I think something's wrong with your truck."

Earl turned up the radio.

"That's just the engine reminding us it's alive."

"Sounds more like it's asking for medical attention."

Earl considered this for a moment.

"Well, if it quits, we'll walk."

"How far?"

"Five minutes."

Clyde looked out the window at the dark countryside.

"Five minutes to where?"

Earl smiled.

"That's the beauty of it. I haven't figured that out yet."

And so ended the first adventure of Earl and Clyde: two men, one questionable business plan, one borrowed sheep, and absolutely no profit.

But as Earl always said, "You can't put a price on experience."

Clyde had a different opinion.

"You can. It's usually the amount Earl owes somebody."

Backroad Wisdom

A man who borrows a sheep without knowing what to do with it should probably stick to buying funnel cakes.

Next week: Earl discovers an old hand-drawn map tucked beneath the seat of his pickup. He claims it leads to buried treasure somewhere in Pendleton County. Clyde suspects it leads to the mechanic's shop. Either way, they're going to follow it.

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