ROLLIN' ROLLIN' ROLLIN'

Keep them doggies rollin', rawhide! (Frankie Laine, lyrics by Ned Washington, Dimitri Tiomkin, composer, 1958)

Neiman Marcus opened its doors in 1907, and even by today’s standards, it’s still the definition of luxury.
(Full disclosure: I don’t shop there, but I do indulge in the occasional window-shopping and glass-case gawking).

In 1926, Neiman’s launched its now-famous “Christmas Book”, a holiday catalog that evolved into a glossy, over-the-top celebration of pure indulgence.
Inside are glittering baubles, limited-edition cars, and gifts so extravagant they border on the absurd. My personal favorite? The fantasy trips, actual vacations you could order right out of the catalog.

More on this in a moment. . .

Let me introduce you to the Y O Ranch in Kerrville, Texas.

The Y O Ranch in Kerrville, Texas, is legendary. 11,200+ acres in the Texas Hill Country. It’s considered the preeminent wildlife conservation ranch in Texas. Veteran hunters say it’s one of the best places in the country for “fair chase hunting”. Boo, hiss, hunting is bad. Sad face.

In the late ‘80’s and early ‘90’s, the Y O was part working dude ranch, while the other part was a hotel with all the expected comforts.

In 1989, Neiman Marcus and the Y O Ranch teamed up, and my husband Steve took the bait.

In November 1989, my husband was perusing the Neiman Marcus Christmas Book. You know how most guys go through a wannabe cowboy phase? Well, he came upon the “perfect” vacation. Neiman’s had collaborated with the Y O Ranch for a three-day cattle drive “experience”. And we could afford this “experience”. And he would get to wear his custom-made cowboy boots and his Stetson hat!

Needless to say, I was a willing participant, but not a happy camper.

Off we went to purchase our cowboy duds. Requirements: boots, hats, Western shirts, chaps, and spurs. Chaps and spurs? For playing cowboy, or playing. . .?

Steve had the shirts, boots, and hat. He needed chaps and spurs. I had nothing because I never liked playing cowboy. I was outfitted in boots, a Stetson, a couple of cowgirl-y shirts, chaps, and spurs. In no way did I resemble a “cowgirl”. I was, however, a striking match for a middle-aged Jewish wife in cosplay.

In the Spring of 1990, we flew to San Antonio and drove to the Y O Ranch in Kerrville. Upon check-in, we were invited to a chuckwagon dinner that night to meet all the other suckers who paid good money to play horsey.

Early the next morning (early-early ), we were matched with our horses for this adventure. Real ones. Big, really tall. Then we were introduced to the real cowboys who would accompany us and help us herd the cattle. I’m pretty sure those cowboys were there for our protection. And to make sure we didn’t spur the horses. (And maybe to make sure we didn’t drive the cattle into Mexico?)

Fun fact: Steven had riding experience and had, in fact, trained horses. I had done a little horseback riding in the past. Once, we even joined something called “Cowboy Lawyers Horse Riders.” (Yes, it was a thing. No, I can’t explain it.)

Anyway, we were now helping drive a few hundred head of cattle across the ranch. We had two days to get it done.

Day one: saddle up and ride until your butt screams for mercy. I overheard a real cowboy say to another, “It’s okay, I’ll go back and find ‘em,” which wasn’t super reassuring. Was he talking about cows or some of us?

At the end of that day, after I dismounted my butt was so numb it took a few minutes of return blood flow before I could walk properly.

Back at the ranch, we were treated to a cowboy dinner, around a cowboy fire, and we drank cowboy booze. I most certainly did not sing cowboy songs. I needed to head back to our room to see if my butt was black and blue.

The next morning, (early, so early) we were fed and bussed back to where we’d left our horses the night before.

I was in pain. Deep, unrelenting, everywhere-kind-of pain. Aleve wasn’t on the market yet. I found two Tylenol in my purse and muttered a prayer. I asked Steve how he was doing. “Great,” he said. Liar.

That second day was more of the same old, same old. Trying to keep the cattle loss to a minimum and coping with the torturous pain in my butt.

Then came lunch, served under a big shade tree where someone had hung Neiman Marcus-logoed combs, brushes, and mirrors by ribbon, from the branches, like bizarre beauty fruit. I was too sore to care how I looked, but I still appreciate the absurdity of that moment.

At the end of the day, we dismounted our horses for good (thank you, God) and were bussed back to the ranch. There was another cowboy dinner, and we were again invited to sit around the cowboy campfire and sing new cowboy songs. Seriously? I thought to myself.

I hobbled back to our room, re-packed and laid out my clothes for early escape the next morning.

NO, we were NOT going to have breakfast at the ranch. We were going to get up, get dressed, get in our car, and hightail it back to catch our flight from San Antonio to Palm Springs. My bed. My shower. My Neiman Marcus-free life.

Steve was very happy. He’d had a great time.

Me? I was fake happy and knew I never had to sit on a horse again.