When you're a kid growing up in Niagara Falls, you can't really do better than a Whistle Pig. A big hot dog, wrapped in bacon and oozing with cheez whiz makes for the ultimate snack. But I'm not sure I've ever had one. When it comes to Pages, home of the whistle pig, what I remember most isn't the heart attack on a bun. And it's not the great custard either. And the custard was good too. I mean the only way to beat that custard was to pile in the car on a Sunday afternoon and head to Lewiston, historic Center Street and Custard's Last Stand, the hilariously named but poorly located fancy dessert hot spot. A trip to Lewiston meant looking at the nice Tops, and the fancy DiCamillo's, and the brick roads and gazebos that give the village its uppity charm. In contrast, a trip to Page's gives you an awesome view of the Burger King drive thru, and the dirtiest abandoned filed next to the venerable (read: slags) Jetport. But I digress. What gives Pages its charm were its rides. I remember riding in the boats, always afraid to stick my hand in the cool green water because the signs told me not to. I saw the ancient motors glistening under the surface like god moving across the water. I would gather the courage to dip my hand quickly like the swifts diving into Kaieteur Falls in Guyana. I would wipe my brow with the dirty water and the sun dry it as I circled the pond over and over. When I finished I would run out and throw my tickets at the attendant by the red baron flying machines. Selecting an aeroplane is like picking the correct fruit at the supermarket, or the right wooden egg at the Broadway market, or maybe the right go-kart at the speedway. Simply put, hopefully you get lucky and get the one that goes the highest or the fastest. If you pick the wrong plane, you sit sullenly inside watching the other kids soar higher than you. Somehow there's a life lesson to be learned there. Don't fly to close to the sun. Don't go chasing waterfalls. I don't know for sure. But I do know if you got lucky enough to sit inside the high flyer, you would have the greatest ride of your life. Looking out over magnificent Packard and Portage Road, nodding towards Kmart, smiling at the hostess store where father was sure to pick up expired Twinkies and throw them in the freezer for afternoon snackage. There's something to be said for small pleasures. Things that don't mean as much at the time mean a lot later. For me, trips to Pages meant an escape from depressing reality. A ride on the metallic painted cars on the merry go round, motor boating thru the afternoon on the boat ride, but most of all, staring into the clouds aboard the red baron. Wouldn't we all rather be flying?