I need a sandbox full of consonants and vowels. Full, crisp, contrasty ones. Like the ones found in “Camden Yards”.
Camden Yards is one of my favorite things to say. From the first time I ever heard it (which, incidentally, I can’t remember). Maybe it was back when I lived in baked, broiled, heat-cracked New Mexico. But wait. No. Probably not. The innovative, historical ballfield didn’t open until 1992 and I was in Washington state by then.
It had to have been after I moved from the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific Northwest and before I met Will. And way before my first-ever trip to Baltimore, back in 2001 or 2002 when Will took me to Fell’s Point and Federal Hill. Seeing all that brick and cobblestone all in one place, live, in person, made me feel like I’d fallen into one of my 8th-grade history books. Nothing makes history come alive like visiting historical places.
But anyway, I’m not here to talk about the field itself, or its history. Just its name. At some point in my life, I heard about the famous ballfield and fell in love with those words, letting the crisp, decisive “kuh” in “Camden” and the broad, airy “aahr” in “Yards” roll over my tongue and around my throat like a smooth, warm dessert. Kind of like that crême brulée I told you about. Because that’s what words are like sometimes. Like foreplay for your mouth. Audible dessert. An orgy of consonants and vowels – tumbled directly onto your palate, compliments of your lungs – for a make-out session with your tongue.
Words are sensuous. Words are beautiful.