I DO REMEMBER something of it. We were at the music festival, and my wife was sharing a blanket by the castle ruins with a strange woman. As I got closer, I could see it was Dulcinea. Upon watching me approach, her muscles stiffened, and she gave me what is known as the side eye. Several side eyes. My wife got up and left at this point, stretched in the sun, and said, “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

It took Dulcinea a great amount of self-control to slowly turn her head in my direction and speak to me. She looked older, and her voice was different. She was wearing red nail varnish, which seemed out of place. She had been a free-spirited hippie girl. When did she go all corporate woman on me? Alas, that’s what happens to people. They change over time. She looked tired and worn out though. She did speak. We were able to have some kind of conversation. I apologized once again for having liked her so much. The love letters, the entirety of the predicament. The whole thing had been too much for any normal lady to bear. What young woman at the start of her young life needed the love an older, washed up man?

That was the first day of the folk festival. On the second day, I was in Italy, where I had booked an Airbnb. My daughter came along. I remember when we walked into that hilltop house in the hills around Bari. “From here,” the owner said, “you can get direct access to the highway and drive to any place in Italy.” The apartment was strange. There was a bedroom with a loft, but these looked like they belonged more to a doll house. I was afraid that if I crawled up into that loft the whole Barbie Dream House looking thing would collapse. There was also an Estonian journalist there who wanted to interview me at a nearby café. Her invitations were relentless.

I left my daughter alone in the Dream House and did the interview, but she wanted to make Instagram videos too teasing the interview. All of that time my phone was ringing with some urgency as my daughter asked where I was. She wanted to go back to the folk festival. I wondered how my wife and Dulcinea were getting along. I felt guilty, as if I had only brought limitless dark clouds into their otherwise sunny existences. Back in Italy, the journalist still wouldn’t let me go. Wouldn’t I make her pasta too? We were supposed to drink wine! At last, I got fed up with the whole thing and ran back to the hilltop house. My daughter was already waiting by the car, fuming. “Where were you?!” she stomped. It was misty and raining. “Come on, kid,” I said, jogging over to the driver’s side door. “Let’s just get the hell out of this place.”

IT WAS A ROOFTOP PARTY, and I was explaining my most recent love story. Two women were listening, but one of them wasn’t buying. This girl was unfamiliar to me, but she was an Estonian, she had shoulder-length brown hair, sharp features, and glasses, and the gist of her prognosis was that I was continuing to swim in the warm waters of self-delusion. “You do this over and over again,” she said. “You fall for some girl, but nothing comes of it. She’s too young for you anyway,” the woman said. “Our people are pragmatic! Pragmatic!” Quite self assured, she stood up and looked down on me, with her hands of her haughty hips. I wondered a) why I continued to attract such “truth talkers” and b) why I was attracted to such arrogant women. With some additional psychological hocus pocus, I would soon be assembling her furniture.

Instead I left the party and bought a plane ticket to nowhere. I didn’t even know the name of the city. It was somewhere in the American Midwest, and the confluence of several great and legendary rivers. Perhaps the Mississippi was one of them. Maybe this was that bend where the Mississippi, Missouri, and Ohio all splashed into each other, north of Memphis, south of Saint Louis. Someplace like that. When the plane came into land, I noticed the airport was unusual. There were trees on both sides of the landing strip, for example. The whole area had a Deep South jungle feel to it, with moss in the trees, and vultures on the tree branches.

This was some kind of private airport serving the three rivers confluence area. We were taken aboard a train, where the conductor pointed out the various renovation facilities for old planes. “No plane ever winds up on the scrap heap,” the conductor said. “Every fuselage is saved and refurbished for future use.” I could see several planes being upgraded by men in white suits who looked like Dahl’s Oompa Loompas. They were lifting, hammering, and drilling.

At last we reached the main part of the airport. Most of the people there were headed toward some of the other cities, but I had to get to my still unnamed third city destination. There were several metro trains heading this way and that. The name of the public transport company was “Ringreis,” which seemed odd, as if some Estonians had settled this part of the Midwest and I had just never heard a word about it. To get to my destination, I needed to take the 5 Train. I stood in line with the other travelers, who were talking about Harris and Trump, and soon enough the 5 Train arrived and I got on. To get to my city though, I needed to take a ferry too. At the port, I boarded the ferry, and could see another city in the distance. It looked quite wealthy and developed with large office buildings topped off with gold glinting domes.

“That’s Waynesboro,” I heard someone say from behind me. “Obama won that city back in ’08.”

So Obama had some soft support out here in the larger river cities of the Midwest. Where was I going? I still had no idea. The river water was choppy, there were big waves, and the river water sprayed my face. “Look over there,” another person said. “That’s Chuck Berry’s birthplace!” So, it was, but it wasn’t mine. To think I had come all the way over here to the middle of nowhere to get away from some Estonian girl on a rooftop. A girl with long hair, glasses, and big opinions about everything that was wrong with me. I should have just kept my mouth shut and nodded along with whatever she said. It would have been easier that way.

IT WAS AUTUMN, the sky was gray, the trees were nearly stripped of their leaves. We were driving through the country though it was unclear what country. There was a field and then we crossed the railroad tracks. The crossing gates were up and, truth be told, it didn’t look like there was a lot of freight traffic on that route. After the tracks, we entered a forest and there were houses on both sides, with long driveways leading up to them. Old wooden houses. The driver turned to me — I was in the passenger side seat — and said, “You know, your great grandmother Genevieve lives up that road over there, do you want to go and meet her now?”

“My great grandmother?” I asked. “Lives?”

“Yes, your great grandmother lives in that house there. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you.”

But my great grandmother Genevieve was dead. She had been dead for 40 years. Or had she? Maybe she had just moved into this forest here, a little way’s away from the railroad tracks. Maybe she had been hiding out all this time, minding her own business, waiting for visitors. I imagined her sitting at the window there, waiting. What would I even say to her? The last time I saw her, I was only three years old. She was born in the 1890s. If she was still alive, she would be the oldest person in the world. Pushing 130. Something for the record books, for sure.

“Should I turn back?” the driver asked. He was maybe 10 years older than me, had lighter hair, working class manners and and a working class accent. Being a driver seemed to be his job.

I thought it over. I wanted to see her, but the thought of having tea with a 130-year-old Irish lady on a dreary day in some country house, well, it just didn’t sit right with me at all.

“Maybe later,” I told the driver. “We can go and see my great grandma later. Some other day.”

I WAS SENT TO SCHOOL in girl’s clothes. My mother told me it was “Opposite Day.” Fortunately, this only involved having my hair tied up in a bun and wearing a pink shirt and jeans. None of this outfit fit me well. The shirt was too constricting, the jeans — stone washed — were ridiculous, as were those white sneakers. The bun was the first to go. It felt so good to let my hair down, and by that time, my body had torn the pink top, so that my hairy chest was revealed in all of its grotesque, Planet of the Apes glory. “Opposite Day” was a great failure.

The school had grown in the decades since I had left it. I was, after all, the sixth grade class of 1992. Nineteen Ninety-two. The summer of the Dream Team at Barcelona. The presidential election that brought us “Slick Willie” Bill Clinton, the Comeback Kid, blazing his saxophone on the Arsenio Hall Show. There were new wings of the school, and to get from one part of the school to the other, a gondola lift system had been installed. I rode the gondola lift from the farthest wing of the school. I rode past the cafeteria and the old Theatre Arts classrooms.

Things had changed in every way. Dramatically. All of the stone walls had been rebuilt with rough wood planks. There were trees — birch saplings — growing in the entrance. The library too had trees growing in it. The stone floors had been replaced with gravel and grass. There were also red chickens clucking around the foyer, and some students were harvesting giant-sized pumpkins, and putting them in carts. It was a New England scene. Everyone in vests.

But the layout of the school remained the same. Mrs. Coldflesh’s Nurse’s Office was still there, as was Mrs. Laketree’s office. She was the assistant principal. And on the right, facing the front of the school, I could see Principal Clocks’ grandiose office. This too had been reconstructed of wood, and a smaller, older woman came out to greet me. She was wearing a gray jacket and had on a black shirt. I was still wearing my Opposite Day outfit. The pink top was in tatters, my hair hung down. What a dumb idea, to dress me like a girl. Wasn’t it obvious that I was a man?

“What are you doing here?” asked the new principal. She had shortly cut gray hair and glasses.

“I used to go to school here,” I told her. “Back when Bill Clocks was running the place. Surely you’ve heard of him. I think Bill Clocks was the most well-known principal this school has ever had. We all loved him. Truth be told, I spent a lot of time in his office. We got in lots of trouble.”

“Clocks?” the principal looked at me and folded her hands. “I’ve never heard of a Bill Clocks. That must have been a long time ago indeed.”

I WAS WALKING in the garden when I saw it lying there on the pebbly ground. It was a quarter of a fish, neatly cut through on both sides. The cuts were fresh, and the flesh was still pink. The fish had a clean smell to it. I wasn’t sure what kind it was, maybe salmon, maybe trout. I’m not a fisherman like Murphy is. Stooping down, I examined the fish. Maybe it had fallen out of someone’s shopping bag? A likely story. The likeliest. A few paces away though there was another piece of fresh fish. This time it was a fish’s head. This piece had been severed at the gills. The fish’s eyes were intact, staring up at the gray skies. Thunder rumbled.

I walked along through the garden. I could see the hedge in the distance, and there was a fountain in the center. As I was walking, I heard a few thuds up ahead. There were more pieces of fish that had landed. What was going on? I surveyed the horizon, and could see small pieces of fish dropping from the clouds. How could it be? Maybe it happened sometimes, if there was a storm or squall. The storm might just draw up anything it could get its hands, or clouds on, into the heavens, and then release them somewhere else, like this English garden right here.

There were other things dropping. Bones. There was a nearly intact human skeleton up ahead. It was wearing an old-fashioned three-cornered hat, the kind you might find on a captain in the Golden Age of Piracy. At the house, some relatives had already begun to inspect one of these skeletal precipitations. “Look at its fingers,” a girl said. “This is an old skeleton. This was probably plucked out of a graveyard. That’s probably what happened. A great waterspout!”

Maybe it was. Maybe the clouds had absorbed a lake, complete with fish and a submerged cemetery. Now they were releasing the pieces in our garden. It was tea time by then, and we sat around on the terrace drinking a hot cup of tea. Two of my cousins were trying to piece together different bones like they were forensic scientists. One arm led to a torso. This leg attached to this pelvis. Some of the fingers had silver rings. What were we to do with the fish?

Maybe we should just fry them up on the spot?

I REMEMBERED AT THIS MOMENT that I had a gig up in Walnut Creek. Just me and my guitar. Riken, the lanky Japanese mountaineer and naturalist, had entered the house, a palatial English manor home, and I was telling him about the fish and the skeletons. He said there had to be some reasonable atmospheric explanation for everything. “It happens all the time that fish and pirate skeletons drop from the sky,” he said. I told him I was worried about the gig, he told me not to worry. “Just wing it. Play them some blues. Something from the Son House songbook.”

I loaded up my car and started the long drive north to the gig. Along the way, I stopped at my girlfriend’s house. Francesca wasn’t there, but all of her Italian cousins were, and her Uncle Rudy was also there. My car was filthy, and I began to quickly wipe down the dashboard as Uncle Rudy came over to examine it. “Mazda,” is all he said, with his thick eyebrows arching up. He looked like that old actor, Chaz Palminteri. He was even wearing a black polo shirt and, yes, a gold chain, but the chain wasn’t too big or too gold. Various Italian cousins were marching back and forth in front of the house, like those kids in The Sound of Music. “Francesca is out,” Uncle Rudy said. “I just wanted to say hi,” I said. “I’m late for a gig in Walnut Creek.” Uncle Rudy paid me no attention. He wanted to know more about the car, how it drove.

LATER WHEN I GOT BACK from the gig, I hid myself away from the world in the manor house. My room was overcrowded with junk. There was barely any space to sleep. Riken the mountaineer came in and turned on a lamp. “How did it go?” he asked. “It went all right. I played the blues, just as you advised. They liked it.” Riken nodded. It was like he knew everything before it was going to happen. Fish dropping from the sky with pirate skeletons? No problem. Gig in Walnut Creek for which one is ill-prepared? Just play some Son House.

“See, I knew you could do it,” Riken said approvingly. “I knew that you could play the blues.”