Bob Dylan Slept Here

We went to Hibbing looking for Bob Dylan. Instead we found Bill.

Is there something that transforms one from ordinary person to celebrity?

Something that separates them from the rest of us?

It was not immediately clear in Hibbing, Minnesota. A land of ten thousand lakes and childhood home of Robert Zimmerman, aka Bob Dylan.

My husband Richard and I were traveling to the Great Lakes Region. It was the shoulder season in the upper Midwest, when the kids have gone back to school, the sandhill cranes travel south, and leaf lookers seek the rustic palette of fall before it disappears into winter’s snow.

In Hibbing, we met Bill … not Bob.

A retired pharmacist, Bill Pagel has spent well over 50 years in all things Bob Dylan-related: collecting, concert-going, archiving, and cajoling potential sellers to part with their memorabilia.

Two of Bill’s major acquisitions were a house in Duluth, where Bob Dylan spent his first six years, and the one in Hibbing, where Bob lived until he went off to college. Pagel had purchased it in 2019.

He has been lovingly restoring the house, memory by memory.

Along the way, Bill managed to create a time capsule of middle-class life in the 1950s.

The house was not a museum. Yet. Bill, 80-something, still had dreams about that.

We had to track Bill down. After talking with Richard, Bill invited us to visit the house. Free of charge. He just asked that, if it so moved us, we write up the experience and maybe give him five stars on TripAdvisor.

We drove up to 2425 Bob Dylan Drive and parked across the street. The two-story sand-colored stucco house sat on the corner. White-painted trim outlined each single-paned window. Five concrete steps lined with a black wrought iron rail led to the modest front door.

A plaque above the door read: Childhood Home of BOB DYLAN from 1948 to 1959.

Bill greeted us at the front step. He looked like the retiree he was, perhaps just coming from morning coffee at the local diner. His unruly, curly white hair could not be contained by the black ball cap nestled on top. He grinned as he reached to shake our hands, flashing a gapped-tooth, aw-shucks smile.

Outside, the sun hid behind clouds. Black-trunked trees had lost their leaves, but the grass of the front lawn maintained its vibrant green. It struck me that Bill’s gray shoes, gray baggy jeans, gray zippered jacket, moss green-and-gray plaid shirt, and his graying hair seemed perfectly color-matched to the tan-colored edifice.

Like partners that have been together so long, they start dressing alike.

Bill gingerly climbed the steps and fumbled the keys a bit. But with the first question about Dylan, his features softened, his voice strengthened, and his body straightened.

We walked inside. A familiar grandma’s house odor of must, mildew, and forgotten newspapers lingered in the air. Butter yellow walls, avocado green trim, and apple red curtains unified the living room and dining room spaces. An original end table nestled against a gray, upholstered sofa.

Bill took us to the living room first. But with the first question about Dylan, his features softened, his voice strengthened, and his body straightened.

We were transported back to “Leave It to Beaver.” A red brick fireplace, trimmed in olive-and-mustard painted wood, was blackened by years of winter fires. Sepia photos sat on the mantel: a young Robert, his mother, Beatty, his father Abram, and his younger brother David stared back at us.

As we strolled through the house­­­—dining area, kitchen, bedrooms—everything seemed strangely familiar to me. Growing up on a farm in the ’50s and ’60s, I’d known the wooden coffee table, linoleum kitchen floor, scratched tabletop, and cotton café curtain fluttering in front of the small kitchen window. Images sketched in my memory.

It became clear which spaces Bill admired most.

Bob’s second-floor bedroom. I wanted to jump on the red-checked bedspread, neatly draped over the twin-sized bed. Brown plaid curtained windows picked up the autumn breeze and aired out the staleness. A 45 rpm record player sat on the dresser.

“Got these records that Bob played from a neighbor down the street,” Bill said.

Bill was particularly proud of the restored 9-inch television.

“Bob and his brother David watched TV on it. Had to find vacuum tubes,” he said. “But it works.”

We took the creaky stairs down to the basement. Dove gray light filtered in through windows that were at ground level. Here we entered a display room filled with Dylan collectibles.

“Look here,” Bill said, pointing to a space on the wall. The initials “RZ” were scratched into the knotty pine paneling.

“Bob carved his initials here as a teenager. This room is where his dad had a bar. Bob would sneak down here.”

The below-ground room was filled with cases that held decades of Dylan treasures. High school yearbooks with a young Dylan peering out. Newspaper articles, magazine covers, and drafts of songs later to hit the airwaves.

“Come here,” Bill gestured. “This is one of my favorites. This is a 1962 letter that Suze Rotolo, Bob’s girlfriend, typed to her mother telling her to be nice to Bob.”

As I skimmed the yellowing page, a decidedly un-daughter-like passage stood out. “I lost all faith in being honest to you because you never give Bob a chance. Why can’t the two of you even attempt to get along?”

Typed in red ink, the page was painted with fury and frustration.

I was in awe of Bill’s dedication.

He had attended over 500 Dylan concerts. He had traveled the country, chasing down leads on anything from photos to original furniture, including Dylan’s highchair. Bill purchased that and placed it in Bob’s birthplace home in Duluth. Bill owned nearly 20,000 pieces of documented Dylan keepsakes.

As we walked back up the stairs, I asked, “Has anyone famous come through? Dylan?”

Bill shrugged. “Bob hasn’t been here, but some family members have. Timothée Chalamet’s people called when he was filming the Dylan movie in 2024. Next thing I knew, Timothée comes driving up in a big white truck. Wandered around the house. Spent a lot of time in the basement room. Read everything. Soaked it in.”

“Wow, did he leave you an autograph or anything?” I asked. I mean, it was Timothée Chalamet.

Bill pulled out a guest book from a corner cabinet in the living room. “Right here. He wrote a note and signed it.”

As he showed us out, Bill asked us to make sure we stopped on the street in front of Dylan’s house. A musical staff was painted over the crosswalk. The first few notes of “Blowin’ in the Wind” were now fadin’ on the asphalt.

A few blocks away was Hibbing High School. We walked on the new sidewalk. At the front of the school, an ebony iron chair embossed with Dylan’s words was anchored to the ground.

Next to it, a concrete and red brick monument was emblazoned with the bust of Alfred Nobel. It said: “The Nobel Prize in Literature 2016 awarded to Bob Dylan. ‘For having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition.’”

Engraved on a shiny metal panel at the back of the monument were snippets of lyrics scrolled tightly into circles and trailing tendrils. Like a windstorm gusting and tossing the words across the plains.

A Hibbing son’s words turning poetry to song.

We hopped back in the car and drove around the modest town. Past the Hibbing Bowling Alley where Bob’s team “The Gutter Boys” won a competition (who knew Bob Dylan bowled?), the L & B Café where Bob and his girlfriend, Echo, would smoke cigarettes and play the jukebox, the Memorial Building where Bob performed in the lobby on a makeshift platform. And the public library, which holds a small permanent collection on the lower level.

We dashed in at 4:55. It closed at 5:00.

The front desk clerk glanced at the wall clock.

“We came from Georgia and we are only here today. Is there any way we could pop into the Dylan exhibit for a few minutes?” Richard asked.

Carrying her Minnesota nice, the clerk came ’round the desk, picking up a set of keys.

“Hardly anyone comes to see it, most of the time,” she said. “Just for Dylan Days in May.”

The area was about the size of a grade school classroom. The clerk left us after snapping on buzzing fluorescent lights. Posters and memorabilia were stacked floor to ceiling.

Left alone in the quiet, we felt a reverence for the people who documented a life’s beginnings.

As we left Hibbing, the October chill encouraged us to pull our sleeves down. Gentle gusts tossed ochre leaves across the street.

We drove past Dylan’s house for one last look. Pink vincas, in their last bloom, bowed their heads in the breeze.

Bill, back to us and white hair blowing wildly in the wind, was locking the door on his legacy.

Five stars, Bill.

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