During my twenties, I was totally in lust with the rock star, Keith Emerson. In fantasyland, I imagined him living in an old English manor house with a rose garden that I would really enjoy once we got together. Decades later, I thought my life would be complete when I obtained my counseling license and made $1500 a week counseling women with adjustment disorders. When I gave up the rocker and the private practice, I settled my dreams on the L. Ward & Gertrude White house in the Irvington neighborhood — there was a glow through the front window bay that reflected true enchantment — and the yard was always mowed.

Last week, I noticed that the house was included in the annual historic homes tour so I bought a ticket. It was the first of seven homes I toured and I realized immediately that our dreams, in reality, don’t always hold up. While beautiful in every way, it just didn’t warm my heart. The second home, with a sculpted rare-wood kitchen vent, stood out due to the three framed posters in the basement family room honoring the National Corn Dog Festival. House #3 wouldn’t work even if we do win the lottery: the fifteen stairs to the second floor had narrow treads and no railings. Going up, I thought of how much I worry about flying home the entire time I’m on vacation; obsessed with safe landings. When directed to wear the mandatory blue-paper booties over our shoes, I asked if I could just take my shoes off. I was told that wasn’t allowed due to insurance and I wondered how Allstate will like it when guests slip down those highly polished hardwood stairwells.

Number four was a smaller home with art that warmed me. A Jonathan Franzen novel rested on a bookshelf next to the fireplace they discovered when chipping plaster in the second living room. Leaping zebras adorned the bathroom wallpaper off the designer kitchen. Another visitor peeked into the master bath and commented that ten people could fit in the shower. The guide replied, “They turned an extra bedroom into the bath.”

“How nice to have an extra bedroom,” I replied.

Three homes to go and the whimsy is wearing on me. Rooms are starting to run together when I notice eight collector guitars hanging in someone’s family room. An entire third floor has been given to a sixteen-year-old with an embroidered bed-pillow reflecting my favorite scripture: Be Still and Know That I am God — a wall-length shelf holds her fragrance collection. I found the combination sweet and felt guilty about labeling her father’s glasses, resting on his closed computer, as cheesy.

The last address, a huge dark box on the outside, turns out to be my favorite. As the least elegant, it confirms my bohemian leanings: flowers crocheted onto soft couch-throws; open shelving; art and color everywhere. Sweeter than a rock star.