The connoisseur of words (Ze connoisseur des mots, if you will, il gran conoscitore di parole) never knows when he will find a new specimen, and he herein offers an example.
The connoisseur (also known as “I”) was recently minding his business while doing some grocery shopping on Martha’s Vineyard. I was up-island at a supermarket, newly sprung up where once had stood a farmers’ market. I waited patiently to pay for a six-pack of yoghurt, only to discover I would have to obtain “summer check-cashing privileges.” So I stood in another line, filled out a form, and waited at the Courtesy Booth to pose for the proleptic mug shot. While I stood there, I began talking to a seven-year-old boy and his younger sister. The boy told me some of the big words he knows, and I told him some of the ones I know. He gave as good as he got, but after a few minutes, as the line shortened, and knowing it would soon be my turn, and we would have to part, I presented him with a word I was sure he wouldn’t know: sharawadgi.
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