B ACK
IN THE
S ADDLE
A GAIN
R EMEMBERING A
W EST T EXAS
C HILDHOOD
by Billie Farrington Birnie
he velvety nose as a horse nuzzles your hand for a
treat, his raspy tongue as he licks sugar from your
palm, his warm breath on your neck as he hovers
for that scratch between his ears—those sensations linger
through the years. As do the memories of his glossy coat
in the summertime and the thick rough one in the winter,
the pleasure of currying him after a spirited ride, the scent
of the saddle leather, and the sense of order as you put
each piece of riding gear back in place.
My father, Casey Farrington, was cowboying for Lee
Kingston when I was born in 1940. Our family of five—
Daddy, Mother (Cassie), two older sisters (Jamie and
Judy), and I—lived on Woulfter Ranch, just west and
north of Toyahvale. Horses were important to us. They
were my father’s working transportation and our primary
playmates. We learned to ride and walk about the same
time. And when someone wouldn’t lift me up on to the
real thing, I rode my stick horse around the yard, longing
for a living, breathing horse of my own.
Jamie turned six in 1942 and needed to go to school,
so we moved to Balmorhea. Our house was on the edge of
town, with a corral behind it. We eventually added a
building that housed a garage, a laundry room, and stalls
and a tack room for the quarter horses that were always a
T
C assie and C asey Farrington, in the early 1930s.
8
Cenizo
Fourth Quarter 2019