To me smell is indeed personal - and a trigger for memories.
When I was little - the sweet smell of incense - represented the
church - and the church represented God. So I guess in my
"salad days" (fresh and green), God smelt like incense.

Which again reminds me of another joke...

A gay guy goes into the Catholic Church for the first time with a
friend. A special ceremony is taking place in which the bishop in
his full regalia is celebrating a mass and swinging the incense
backwards and forwards on the altar. As the bishop - walks down
the aisle swinging the incense - the guy leans forward and whispers
an aside to the bishop:

"Love your hat and outfit dear,
But your handbag's on fire!"

Ha ha! - good one, Lexi.

I have good friends who are church-attending Catholics - they'll like that one.

...which reminds me, in the local parish we have a rather splendid Catholic deacon. He's married but gets to perform some rites to assist the priests. The thing is that he is so enamoured of his position that he usually dresses up in the most stunning regalia - brocade and smarm apparently are his speciality - he so totally outdoes the priests in performance and costume that they pale in comparison. I'm not a Catholic but I've been to a few masses, although sadly in those he wasn't performing.

Dear Poirot,

Glad you liked that one - it's one of my favourites.

Ah, the memories of a Catholic upbringing. So many stories
to tell. I remember the agonising days of going to confession
to my favourite Irish priest (who was deaf as a post).
We were taken as a school group to our local parish church -
every Friday. And of course all of us girls would pray that
we didn't get this particular deaf priest. He was a lovely
man - but not good at hearing confessions -
because of his tendency to shout at everything you said.
Of course as luck
would have it - I was destined to strike out each Friday.
Much to my dismay - I'd get into the confessional - to see
that it was him - hearing my confession.

I would tell him - relatively harmless things - like -
"Father I didn't go to church last Sunday." And he'd literally
bellow back at me at the top of his lungs, "You did WHAT?"
much to my embarrassment with my girlfriends waiting for me
outside the confessional wondering just what was it
that I had done. I'd
leave the confressional with my head down, and red as a beet -
trying not to make eye-contact - with my giggling friends.

The smell of incense still - triggers all those memories - (and more)
for me today.

*We are born with our characters pretty much intact, which accounts for the enormous diversity of human nature*

I have to agree with Ybgirp here. Alot more is genetic, then we are
aware of or care to admit. In my own case that is certainly the
truth.

Studies on identical twins separated at birth, are another great
source of information on the topic.

I had a friend years ago, who fathered a number of kids around the
place, some of whom he never got to meet. I know a couple of his
sons and they walk like their dad, talk like their dad and act
like their dad. I'm blown away every time I meet them.

But sometimes genes will skip a generation or two. Check out the
grandies etc. Thats what my mom has a hard time understanding
when she tries to lecture me about my bad qualities, like being
untidy and I remind her that I was an innocent sperm swimming along
and minding my own business, when all the rest is all her
responsibility :)

Dear Poirot,
How embarrassing. You are correct. I do shoot myself in the foot rather. All us siblings are different, but we each strongly resemble other relatives—grandparent, uncle, aunts. Does that redeem my argument? Probably not.
The artistic bent in your family is interesting, as is your parentage. I’ve always had a romantic image of North American Indians. Always dressed up as one at fancy-dress events as a kid. Any mathematicians in the family?
Excellent joke, Lexi. I wonder if Catholic prelates would continue to dress up in medieval garb if they had to wash, starch and iron all their own gear. Did you find confession—apart from the embarrassment, left you feeling emotionally better by eliminating guilt, fear, sadness etc?
You’re right, Yabby, genes often seem to skip generations. Boys inherit many characteristics from maternal grandmothers… mine gave me a large nose, parsimony and a tendency to weepy eyes when I laugh or feel sentimental.

Dear ybgirp,

Glad you liked the joke.

As for confession and how it made me feel?

I can't remember feeling relieved in any way.
I think I was too young to fully understand what
was going on. To me it was simply something that
I felt obliged to do. And actually as far as that
particular Irish priest was concerned - when I
didn't have much to tell him - I used to make
stuff up to pass the time. I felt I had to - so
that his time wouldn't be wasted. ;-)

Talking about American Indians though, - here's another joke
for you:

An English tourist on a tour of the American Indian REservations
was told by a local that the chief of this particular trading
post was psychic.

The English toruist was somewhat skeptical.

"There he is now," said the local man, pointing to the chief
who was sitting on a bench outside the store.
"Go ahead pal, ask him anything you like, you'll see, he'll
know the answer."

"Allright, I will," said the English tourist walking towards
the chief.

"Good Morning chief. They tell me you know everything around
here. OK can you tell me what I had for breakfast this morning?"

The chief looked at the English tourist and slowly replied,
"EGGS!"

"By George that's absolutely correct!," said the amazed
English tourist. "Well, I won't doubt your word again,"
he added to the local man.

Quite a few years went by, and the English tourist found himself
in the same Indian Reservation, and would you believe he saw
the same Indian chief sitting in the same spot on the bench
outside that store. The tourist walked towards the chief as
he had done in the previous time and by way of greeting
he said, "HOW, CHIEF!"
To which the chief calmly replied:
"SCRAMBLED!"