Otto Emil Dyrebu was born on Monday, April 6, 1874, in Dane County, Wisconsin, the first child and only son of Kittil and Marte Fønnerud Dyrebu. At the time, Ulysses S. Grant was the President, and the era was marked by Indian wars and grasshopper plagues.

Otto was a kind, gentle, and long-suffering man who loved his family above all else. I say that he was long-suffering because of a sweet recollection offered to me by my dad regarding how his uncle Otto once handed him a pair of scissors and a straight razor with instructions to give him a much-needed haircut. Nervous at first, Dad obediently performed the task and then routinely kept his uncle’s hair trimmed thereafter—each time very happily for a nickel. One haircut led to many more, and by the time Dad had fairly well mastered the art of haircutting, Otto had endured more than his share of embarrassing trims at the amateur hands of his ten-year-old nephew.  But, no matter what, Otto always had encouraging words. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn in time. Just keep trying.” His words were not only affirming but prophetic. Many years later, Dad went on to ensure that his U.S. Navy buddies always looked quite smart, and as the ship’s barber, he also made a handsome sum for his well-honed skill. He was quick to credit his uncle Otto as the one who gave him his start.

Otto was a remarkably accomplished horseman and avid reader. He possessed numerous horses and just as many old books by notable authors.

Otto was a tall, stately man with steel blue eyes and blonde hair, favoring many of his Norwegian ancestors. He always slept facing the east, whether cultural or superstitious and consistently adhered to this ritual. He carried a compass with him so that when away from home, his bed could be aligned to accommodate his sleeping preferences. Otto was known for keeping a small stash of Limburger cheese and a piece of lefse in his shirt pocket.

For the better part of my life, what I’ve written is what I knew of Otto Emil Dyrebu. I suppose it’s the best of recollections because the stories of his life at this time conjure good memories of a thoughtful man whose love was surely reciprocated. However, it was not until 1995, forty-seven years after Otto’s death, that my dad tearfully told me the truth of his last painful years.

The Dyrebu’s were a close-knit family, where shared mealtimes and after-church gatherings were a regular occurrence. No one was prepared for the 1930s drought that devastated the economy and plunged the country into a debilitating depression. Despite their best efforts to save the farm, they were unsuccessful. The first of the family to leave Nebraska was Otto’s oldest sister and her husband, whom he had lived with for many years. When Otto realized he would not be going with them, living in the old house alone was particularly frightening. He tried desperately to convince them to take him to Idaho, eventually offering to leave all his belongings to lighten the load. To no avail, they promised to come back for him as soon as possible. He never saw them again. The last family to leave was Otto’s youngest sister, her husband, and their children in 1940. Again, he begged to go with them to California. The same promise was made—a return once they were settled. It would be 1944 before a family member made the trip to Nebraska to visit him. Otto actually thought that someone had finally arrived to retrieve him after twelve years. Sadly, this would not be the case, and that was the last time he saw any of his relatives.

It was a nearby neighbor who occasionally checked in on him who realized Otto’s health was rapidly declining and that he should no longer live by himself. The dream of being reunited with his beloved family had all but faded from Otto’s memory—taking a toll on his body and heart.

Otto Emil Dyrebu passed away, quietly and very much alone, at the age of 74 in a Newman Grove, Nebraska, nursing facility on Wednesday, February 4, 1948.