From the time that Tom Bouton reopened our treasured store (ten years ago, this May!), I used to follow a Thursday-morning ritual of sitting at the corner table against the front wall, checking over my just-published column. Back then, I used to be able to blame any typos on a Crier clerk; now, since I file the column electronically, what you see are my botches and none other’s. My cover is blown.

About two years ago, however, a far worse change marred my Thursday ritual. Tom Bouton, always attuned to new market niches, decided to carry DVD movies for rent. That’s a good idea in itself, of course. But to make room for a towering, illuminated DVD display case, Tom had to remove a table. My table. Since being usurped, I’ve sat elsewhere for my Thursday rite, but with considerably reduced satisfaction. Though I’ve said nothing about it (except, of course, to Tom, incessantly), I’ve mourned the loss of my corner office in the store.

But friends, it’s back! The approach of spring brought a seismic shift in the store. Tom rearranged the aisles and, to my delight, the big DVD display case was trundled west, down the front wall. And my old table was restored. Please feel free to use it yourself_though perhaps not on Thursday mornings at about seven.

Since the restoration, I’ve realized what I’ve been missing these last few years. It was not just the sense of my own place in Fly Creek’s de facto social club. What I had lost was a perspective, and I don’t mean just a view down the length of the store. I had lost a unique view of people as they enter the store’s door. That meant I could no longer see their subtle but real change from private to public face. For we all have both, don’t we.

The private face is the one we unconsciously wear while alone_while driving, while riding an escalator, while standing in an otherwise empty elevator. It’s not exactly a blank face, for it can readily mirror our thoughts or mood. But it is our face when we presume we’re unobserved.

Here’s a related case-in-point: There’s a wild-haired, bleary-eyed, slack-jawed old creature that shocks me in the bathroom mirror each morning. I’m so jolted by sight of him, standing there in his rumpled flannel pajamas, that at once I claw my own hair into some order and even try to force a smile. Mind you, I do this even though there’s not one to see me but him.

But that automatic reaction on my part reveals the importance to us of a public face_the way we wish to be seen. You see, I don’t want to be judged a doddering old geezer by anyone, even by myself. And so I immediately put a better face on things_that is, on me.

And it’s that transformation, the one from private to public face, that I get to witness again, now that I’m back at my corner table in the store. The big door’s opening catches my attention, but I’m far out of the direct line of arrivers’ vision, way over on their periphery. And so I witness, unobserved, the first five seconds after entry, when a newcomer pauses to orient herself or to stamp snow off his boots. That’s when, in most cases, the private face they’ve worn into the store is replaced by a public one.

I don’t think I’m really spying. I’m just observing, and with real sympathy. (Remember that old clown in the mirror.) And I have an added advantage. At least half of the newcomers, once in, turn in my direction. That’s because the newspaper rack is now just next to my restored table, and beyond my table is the coffee bar. I’m also sitting along the route to the deli counter and its hot breakfast sandwiches.

But I should note that, in some people, the change to public face doesn’t take place until they’ve actually passed my table. These, I presume, are people who haven’t interacted with another human being since dragging themselves out of bed; and they devoutly don’t want to, not yet. They pass me looking straight ahead, determined not to speak a word until they’ve had a first restorative sip of coffee. Then jaw muscles relax and brows smoothen. After a belt of caffeine, they’re ready to head for the cash register and perhaps banter with Tom. Powerful stuff, coffee.

I’ve learned not to hail such suffering people as they pass. It would be cruelty to force a response from them. But a good clutch of customers, pre- and post-coffee, do stop by my restored table on Thursdays mornings. And it’s from them that I get lots of the stories I later share with you. For many have already glanced at the paper at home and have read this column. Some of these will start with (I hope) mock exasperation, slapping the paper lying open before me: "What on earth were you trying to say today?" Or, sometimes, "Give us a break, Atwell!"

But others will open with, "You know, what’s in there today brought back something I haven’t thought of in years_a story my grandfather used to laugh about." And_bang!_I have the start of a future column.

I honestly don’t think I’d still be writing to you each week without that steady source of new material. And so I’m grateful to Fate or to a beneficent Tom Bouton for restoring full access to it.

I need to be at that table to do my job for you. In fact, maybe I ought to try writing off my Thursday coffee and blueberry muffin as a business expense ...

Read about Jim Atwell’s new book, "From Fly Creek _ Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at Jim Atwell.com.