In memory of the old Buffalo rose

“The Old Pink is on fire,” he said under his breath, posting a video on social media.

Sleepily, I rested my head on his arm and felt tears on my cheeks.

Thousands of people woke up Monday to the punch of Rose in flames. By the end of the day, the legendary Allentown bar was reduced to rubble.

All day long, social media was filled with tributes to the venue. Person after person, regardless of age or social strata, had fond memories of Old Pink and a hole in their heart watching it burn.

There were those from its inner sanctum – people like David Gutierrez and Eric Van Rysdam who, from the DJ booth, were stewards of the Pink’s very soul. But then there were tributes from people I never would have expected – a preppy elementary school teacher, a Christian senior, new legal drinkers. For many – even those whose memories reduced it to its sticky floors, steak sandwiches and funky bathrooms – the Rose meant something.

As the day progressed, post after post after post showed the Pink being watered, then dismantled, then mourned in a candlelight vigil.

Like seemingly everyone else in Western New York, I have my own warm memories.

In my 20s, I went to the Nietzsche on Allen Street or the Continental on Franklin Street almost every weekend to listen to live music. Most often, these evenings ended at the Old Pink.

It was a safe haven, away from the frat bars and hustle and bustle of Chippewa Street. At Pink, I knew I would hear great music and meet lots of characters, many of whom were creative, cool, and intelligent.

It was a welcoming place at an uncertain time in my life. It didn’t feel welcoming in a way that felt like a hug as you walked through the door, but more like you could walk in undetected. If someone bothered to look at you when you walked in the door, you didn’t feel embarrassed. Everyone was too busy doing their own thing to judge you.

One evening in 2002, there with my friend Karen, we met someone she worked with at Harry’s Harbor Place – a handsome, elegant man named Dan who was there to meet friends. I vaguely remembered him from high school as laid back and funny, someone with character and integrity.

At the end of the night we were sitting on the front porch getting our shoes shined.

A few years later we got married.

The years passed in a happy blur. Late-night tequila shots were replaced by diaper changes and breastfeeding. Then, after a very rare night out to see a band at the Town Ballroom in 2019, my friend Jess and I wanted to stop somewhere for a drink.

We didn’t know where to go. So many bars had opened and closed since we last left the house.

But the Pink was still there.

It was like settling into an old pair of slippers.

Last year at the Allentown Art Festival, I brought my two daughters to show them the building where Mom and Dad met. I took their photo outside, marveling that they might not have existed if Dan and I hadn’t both been drawn to the strange and wonderful cathedral that was the Old Pink.

Now it’s gone. And it’s too painful to properly put into words.

He did not die through neglect or disuse. It wasn’t a place that people didn’t appreciate in the moment – unaware of how special it was until it was gone. It was always a vital and beloved place – the beating heart of Allentown that helped give Buffalo an authentic charm.

This hurts even more.

But while Old Pink’s long-standing patina can’t be replaced, it reminds us that nothing lasts forever. It’s a reminder to cherish what you love now, while you have it.