My shoemaker said this today. He greeted me with howdy and then called me "my dear."
My shoemaker does not say howdy, although, yes, today he did.
But he really doesn't (say it).
My shoemaker, a man I would truly miss were I to move to another state, is, if I recall correctly, Ukrainian.
Were I to apply a little-used form of Sarah Palin logic, I would posit that when I entered the cobbler shop, a pleasant memory (from Sunday) of watching the Georgian bread baker of Brighton Beach scrape his toné somehow infused the atmosphere of the shop, altering the climate so as to throw my usually laconic cobbler into a state teetering on the brink of loquacity.