Journeys With Jani

My daddy had custody of me from the time I was around four. This was the early ’70s, so that alone raised some eyebrows. But whenever I did go visit my mother, it was… well, an experience.

She had moved to Atlanta to sing in nightclubs—and she was good. I mean really good. At one point, RCA Records even approached her with a contract. Why she didn’t sign it? That’s one of those long-winded family mysteries. I’ve heard her version, I’ve heard his version, and somewhere in the foggy middle lies the truth—probably twisted up with a little pride, a little pain, and a whole lot of what if.

During those visits, I was usually left with a nighttime babysitter while she hit the clubs. But one morning—one very specific morning—she came to pick me up still dressed in full-on nightclub mode. She was wearing all black: tight pants, a sheer chiffon blouse that left very little to the imagination, and her signature shag haircut. Say what you will, but she was an absolutely stunning woman. Beautiful, bold, and a little bit dangerous.

We walked outside to a white El Camino—not hers, of course. Those things were like a two-seater coupe mixed with a station wagon and a lowrider truck. Basically, the mullet of automobiles. She opened the passenger side door so I could perch on the little console between the seats.

That’s when I saw him.

In the driver’s seat was a man—decked out in a white, bedazzled jumpsuit. Think Elvis, but not the young, hip-shaking heartthrob. No, this was late-stage, sweat-drenched, post-divorce Elvis. The kind with sideburns, a paunch, and enough rhinestones to blind a preacher.

My mom, cool as ever, gestured toward him and said,

“Sweetie, this is Uncle……..”

Because every man in her life was magically transformed into “Uncle” something when I was around.

But before she could finish, he leaned over with a big grin and said,

🚩“But you can call me… Sneaky Snake.” 🚩

Yes.

That happened.

He said that. Out loud. To a child.

And just to make sure the moment was fully seared into my brain, Crocodile Rock was blaring on the FM radio like the universe itself was cackling at the scene.

So there I sat, sandwiched between a hungover nightclub singer in sheer chiffon and a sweaty rhinestone-stuffed stranger who introduced himself as Sneaky Snake, with Elton John howling about happy times and rockin’ feet.

And that, my friends, is just one of many reasons I have a dark sense of humor, trust issues, and a love for storytelling that’s equal parts therapy and entertainment.

Oh, the joys of my childhood. Bless it.

About the Author– I am a southern-born, Yankee-educated, sassy storyteller with a suitcase full of memories and a heart full of grit. When I’m not planning luxury getaways with Take Time To Travel, I’m spinning tales from a childhood that was equal parts chaos and charm. Stick around—this is just one gem from a treasure chest of stories you won’t believe (but absolutely happened).

XOXO, Jani