My mother was a local celebrity for many reasons, not least of all her aim. She had an arm that could have won the World Series; local dogs tucked their tails and slunk away, whimpering, when my mother bent down as if to find a rock; local children knew better than to throw a snowball at my mother on a winter's day.

Most of the time, my mother refrained from throwing anything; she was secure in her abilities and didn't feel the need to practice. Her feelings were publicly justified in the summer of my tenth year, when the carnival came to town, and my mother saw the new addition to their range of attractions — a dime toss.

My mother approached the dime toss with covetous excitement in her eyes. There, on a long, narrow table set about three feet back from the waist-high barrier that surrounded it on all sides, gleamed a multifarious selection of glassware, stemware, and crystal; goblets, mugs, bowls, plates, tumblers, gravy boats and sugar dishes glittered and sparkled and winked in the bright summer sunlight.

My mother stood there for several minutes, caressing this delicious assortment with her gaze. She watched the players tossing their dimes; she watched as most of the dimes missed their marks entirely, or skittered and danced over the edges of plates and saucers to the pavement below.

My mother licked her lips and they shone with the moisture.

"I could win me every one of them dishes," she whispered at last. I nodded. I knew it was true.

I also knew that we could use some new dishes. I was a butterfingers and had broken nearly every one we owned; my poor mother would buy a small set of tableware only to watch me break them again and in short order. She was a widow on a government pension, and simply couldn't afford to keep financing my clumsiness.

At least, she thought she couldn't; but that was before she saw the dime toss.

My mother had taken me to the carnival on a Wednesday, because that was the half-price discount day, and so she still had five dollars in her pocket after buying me a ticket for the rides.

She stepped up to the dime toss booth and offered the carnie her five-dollar bill. He reached into his apron pocket and began counting out ten dimes.

"No," my mother said, "I want a whole roll."

The carnie raised his eyebrows but silently complied with my mother's request.

My mother broke open the roll of dimes and handed me a dollar's worth.

"Here you go, Kid," — my mother always called me Kid — "have at 'er."

I clutched the dimes in my sweaty, chubby palm and watched as my mother went to work.

First, she circled the booth a few times, making her selections, looking for the best angles. At last, she posed a dime on the fingertips of one hand, took aim, and threw.

The dime found its mark — a tall blue water glass that shimmered iridescently. The carnie wordlessly picked up the glass, tipped out the dime, wrapped it in newsprint, and handed it to my mother.

"I'm going to need a box," my mother said.

The carnie scrounged around behind his barrier and came out with a very small box.

"No, I'm going to need a big box." My mother held out her arms to show how big.

The carnie raised his eyebrows, but, again, complied with her request. My mother put the box down next to her feet and put the glass into it. Then she pointed at the three blue water glasses that remained.

"We're gonna want the whole set," she said. And sure enough, a few minutes later, we had the whole set.

A crowd began to gather as my mother threw dime after dime. She won saucers, tumblers, plates, bowls, mugs, and goblets — a complete set of dishware such as would have made any new bride squeal with glee. The crowd grew larger as my mother's box filled up. They rewarded each win with louder and louder applause.

Through it all, the carnie never said a word. He merely picked up each dish, tipped out the dime, wrapped it in newsprint, and handed it to my mother, who carefully placed it in the box at her feet.

Soon enough, my mother ran out of dimes. The silent carnie sagged with relief when my mother shook his hand and said, "Thankee, I'm done now."

My mother threw forty dimes that day, but we didn't go home with forty dishes.

We went home with forty-one.

I, not blessed with my mother's aim, threw my ten dimes but only hit the mark once. I won a yellow coffee mug; printed on its side was a picture of an open book and the legend, "So Many Books, So Little Time."

My mother laughed when she saw it and said to the carnie, "That's right up her alley; she's always got her nose stuck in a book."

The carnie wrapped my mug in newsprint as he'd done all the others, and smiled at me as he handed it over.

"Congratulations," he said. "You've won."

Marjorie McAtee appears ready to write her childhood memoirs, several years ahead of schedule. Her poetry and creative nonfiction have appeared in various publications including The Album, The Blotter, and The Candlelight Poetry Journal. You can follow her travel-memoir blog at http://wakinginthelake.blogspot.com.