Priscilla DISCOVERED Who Elvis Tried to Reach Before the Call Ended
Priscilla DISCOVERED Who Elvis Tried to Reach Before the Call Ended
August 22nd, 1977, 6 days after Elvis died, Priscilla Presley sat in Elvis’s office at Graceland, surrounded by paperwork she didn’t want to deal with, but had to. Financial records, legal documents, phone bills. She was going through everything methodically, trying to make sense of Elvis’s affairs. Then she found the phone records from August 16th, the day he died. And there at 1:47 a.m., just hours before Elvis was found unresponsive, was a call attempt. Three rings, no answer to a number Priscilla
didn’t recognize. A Memphis number, not anyone from Elvis’s usual circle, not his doctor, not his manager, not any of the guys, someone else, someone Elvis had tried to reach in what would be his final hours. And Priscilla needed to know who because maybe, just maybe, that call would tell her something about Elvis’s state of mind, about what he was thinking, about whether he knew something was wrong. Her hands were shaking as she stared at the number. Seven digits written in the phone
company’s standard format, impersonal, clinical, but representing something that suddenly felt crucial. Why would Elvis be making phone calls at 1:47 in the morning? He was often up late. That wasn’t unusual. But who was he calling? And why did the call only last three rings? Had the person not answered? Had Elvis hung up? Had something interrupted him? Priscilla picked up the phone. Her finger hovered over the rotary dial. She could trace this number, could call the phone company, could figure out who it
belonged to. But part of her didn’t want to know because what if it was something that made Elvis’s death harder to understand? What if it was something that added more pain to an already unbearable situation? But she had to know. She couldn’t not know. That number was one of the last things Elvis had reached for. One of his final actions and it mattered. She called the phone company, explained who she was, asked them to trace the number. The operator was sympathetic but firm. They couldn’t
just give out that information. Privacy regulations, Priscilla explained again. Her ex-husband had just died. This was his phone record. She needed to know who he’d been trying to call. The operator put her on hold. 5 minutes passed. Then 10. Priscilla sat there holding the phone, staring at the number on the bill. 90155847. Just numbers, but they meant something. They had to mean something. The operator came back on the line. Ma’am, I have the information. The number belongs to a Barbara and Mitchell. 847 Popular
Avenue, Memphis. Priscilla’s mind went blank. Barbara and Mitchell. The name meant nothing to her. She’d never heard Elvis mention anyone by that name. Never seen it in any of his address books. Never heard the guys talk about her. Are you sure? Priscilla asked. “Yes, ma’am. That number has been registered to Barbara and Mitchell since 1968.” Priscilla thanked her and hung up, then immediately picked the phone back up and called Joe Espazito. Joe had been with Elvis since the 1960s. If anyone would
know who Barbara and Mitchell was, it would be Joe. Joe, do you know anyone named Barbara and Mitchell? Joe was quiet for a moment. Barbara and wait Barbara and from Tupelo. I don’t know who is she if it’s the same Barbara and she was Elvis’s first grade teacher, Miss Mitchell. But I think she got married at some point. I remember Elvis mentioning her once or twice over the years. Said she was the first person who ever told him he could sing. Priscilla’s chest tightened. His first grade
teacher. Yeah. From East Tupelo. Why? What’s this about? Elvis called her or tried to call her. At 1:47 in the morning on August 16th, the line went silent. When Joe spoke again, his voice was strained. He tried to call his first grade teacher. Hours before he died. The call only lasted three rings. I don’t think anyone answered. Jesus, what was he thinking? That was the question. What had Elvis been thinking at 1:47 a.m. on August 16th, 1977? What had driven him to dial the number of a
woman he hadn’t seen in probably 40 years? What had he wanted to say to her? Priscilla needed to know. She got in her car and drove to 847 Popler Avenue. It was a small house in a quiet neighborhood, well-maintained, a garden in the front yard, wind chimes on the porch, the kind of house a retired teacher would live in. She sat in her car for 10 minutes trying to decide what to say. How do you tell someone that Elvis Presley tried to call them hours before he died? How do you explain that you’ve tracked them down because you
need to understand what he was thinking in his final hours? Finally, she got out of the car and walked to the door, knocked, waited. An elderly woman answered, probably in her 70s. Gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, kind eyes behind wire- rimmed glasses. She looked at Priscilla with polite confusion. Can I help you? Are you Barbara and Mitchell? I am. Well, Barbara and Sullivan now. Mitchell was my maiden name. Who are you? My name is Priscilla Presley. I was married to Elvis Presley. The woman’s face went pale. Her hand
went to her chest. Oh my god. Is this about I heard about his passing. I’m so sorry, but I don’t understand why you’re here. Can I come in? I need to talk to you about something. Barbara and hesitated, then nodded and stepped aside. The house was exactly what Priscilla expected. Neat, comfortable, filled with books and photographs. the home of someone who’d lived a quiet, meaningful life. They sat in the living room. Barbara and offered tea. Priscilla declined. She didn’t have time for
pleasantries. She needed answers. Mrs. Sullivan, did Elvis ever call you? In recent years. Elvis? No. I haven’t heard from Elvis since Well, since he was a child. I taught him in first grade. That was 1941. I haven’t seen him since his family moved away from East Tupelo in 1948. Did your phone ring early in the morning on August 16th? Around 1:47 a.m., Barbara N’s eyes widened. Yes. Yes, it did. It woke me up, but I didn’t answer. I thought it was a wrong number. Or kids playing pranks. Who calls at
that hour? I let it ring three, maybe four times. Then it stopped. Priscilla felt tears burning in her eyes. That was Elvis. He was trying to call you hours before he died. Barbara N’s hand flew to her mouth. >> No. >> No, that can’t be right. Why would Elvis be calling me after all these years? I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t know. I haven’t seen that boy in nearly 30 years. I didn’t even know if he remembered me. Apparently, he did. What was he like when you taught him? Barbara
N’s eyes went distant, remembering Elvis was 6 years old when he was in my class. Quiet, shy, poor as dirt. Excuse my language. His clothes were worn. His lunch was often just a biscuit or nothing at all. But he was sweet, so sweet and smart. He absorbed everything. She stood up and walked to a bookshelf, pulled down a photo album, brought it back and opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. There was a class photo from 1942. 25 children in worn clothes standing in front of a one- room schoolhouse.
Barbara, and pointed to a small boy in the back row. That’s Elvis, second from the right. See how he’s standing slightly apart from the other children. He was always like that, part of the group but somehow separate. Like he was watching instead of participating. Priscilla stared at the photo. Elvis at 6 years old. A lifetime before fame. Before everything, just a poor kid in Mississippi trying to make it through first grade. What made you think he could sing? Priscilla asked Barbara and
smiled. We had singing time every afternoon. just me and the students singing hymns or folk songs. Most of the children were offkey or too shy to really sing. But Elvis, when Elvis sang, the whole room changed. His voice was pure, clear, and he wasn’t shy when he sang. He transformed. I told him after class one day, Elvis Presley, you have a gift. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different. You told him that when he was six. I did because I meant it. I could hear it even then. That boy had
something special and I wanted him to know it before the world tried to convince him otherwise. Did he say anything? He looked at me with these big eyes and said, “You really think so, Miss Mitchell?” And I said, “I know so.” Then he hugged me. Just wrapped his little arms around my waist and hugged me. I don’t think anyone had told him he was special before. Priscilla was crying now. Couldn’t help it. He remembered you after everything, after all the fame and success and everything else. He
remembered his first grade teacher who told him he could sing. But why would he call me? Why at that hour? I think he was scared. I think he knew something was wrong. And I think he wanted to go back to a time when things were simple. When he was just Elvis. When someone believed in him before he had to believe in himself. Barbara and was crying too. I would have answered if I’d known. I would have talked to him. Would have told him I was proud of him. That I always knew he’d do something special.
But I didn’t answer. I let it ring. You didn’t know. But I should have known. Something about that call felt different. I almost answered. My hand was on the phone. But I thought, who calls at this hour? It must be a mistake. So I let it ring. And now I’ll never know what he wanted to say. They sat in silence for a long moment. Two women mourning Elvis Presley in different ways. Priscilla mourning the man she’d loved and lost. Barbara and mourning the boy she taught and the call
she’d never answered. What do you think he would have said? Priscilla asked finally Barbara and thought about it. I think he would have said thank you for seeing him, for believing in him, for giving him permission to be special before anyone else did. That’s what I would have wanted to hear from him, that it mattered. That what I told that scared little boy in 1942 made a difference. It did make a difference. You made all the difference. But I didn’t answer the phone. He tried to reach you. That’s what matters. In his
final hours when he was scared and alone, he thought of you. He wanted to hear your voice. He wanted to go back to a time when someone believed in him unconditionally. That says everything about what you meant to him. Barbara and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. Will you tell me about him? About what he was like as a man? I only knew the little boy. They talked for 2 hours. Priscilla told Barbara and about Elvis, about his generosity and his fears, about his love for his mother and his daughter, about
his struggles and his triumphs, about the man behind the legend and Barbara and listened, seeing glimpses of the six-year-old boy she taught in the stories about the 42-year-old man who died. He never forgot where he came from. Priscilla said even when everyone was telling him he was special, was treating him like he was more than human. He never forgot he was just a kid from Tupelo who got lucky. It wasn’t luck, Barbara and said firmly. It was talent and heart and something in his soul that couldn’t be taught. That boy
was always going to be special. I just happened to be the first person to tell him. When Priscilla finally left Barbara and walked her to the door. Thank you for coming, for telling me about the call. It hurts knowing I didn’t answer, but it helps knowing he thought of me. That after everything, I mattered enough for him to try. You mattered more than you know. Priscilla drove back to Graceland with more questions than answers. What had Elvis wanted to say to Barbara, and what would the conversation
have been like if she’d answered? Would it have changed anything? Would it have saved him? Probably not. Elvis was beyond saving by then. His body was failing. His spirit was broken. One phone call to his first grade teacher wouldn’t have fixed any of that. But maybe it would have given him comfort. Maybe it would have reminded him that before he was Elvis Presley, the king of rock and roll, he was just Elvis, a sweet boy with a gift, a scared kid who needed someone to believe in him. and
someone had believed in him. Barbara and Mitchell, first grade teacher at East Tupelo Consolidated School, had looked at a poor six-year-old boy and told him he was special. And that moment, that simple act of recognition had stayed with Elvis for his entire life. Had mattered enough that in his darkest hour, he’d reached for it. The phone records from that night painted a picture of Elvis’s final hours. He’d made several calls, talked to his girlfriend, Ginger Alden, talked to his doctor, made arrangements for the next
day’s flight to Portland for a concert. Normal stuff, logistical stuff. But then at 1:47 a.m., he dialed a number he probably hadn’t called in decades. Had tried to reach back through time to the person who’d first seen him, really seen him, and nobody had answered. In the weeks after Elvis’s death, Priscilla thought about that unanswered call constantly. It haunted her. Not because she thought it would have saved him, but because it revealed something about Elvis’s state of mind. He wasn’t just
struggling physically. He was struggling existentially. He’d reached a point where he needed to go back to the beginning, to the origin of everything, to the moment when someone had given him permission to be special. Barbara and Sullivan lived for another 15 years. She died in 1992 at the age of 86. In those final years, she talked occasionally about Elvis, about teaching him about the call she’d never answered. She kept the class photo from 1942 on her mantle, would point to Elvis’s face whenever
someone visited. “That boy changed music,” she’d say. But I knew him when he was just Elvis, just a sweet kid who could sing. At her funeral, her daughter mentioned the unanswered call. How her mother had regretted it until the day she died. How she’d wished she could have told Elvis one more time that he was special. That she’d always known he’d do something great, that she was proud of him. Someone in attendance was a reporter. The story made it into the local Memphis paper, then got picked up
nationally. Elvis’s last call. The teacher who didn’t answer. The story resonated because it captured something universal. We all have people from our past who saw us before anyone else did. Who believed in us before we believed in ourselves. Who gave us permission to be special. And we all wonder if we thanked them enough. If they know what they meant to us, if we reached out before it was too late. Elvis tried to reach out. In his final hours, he tried. But the call wasn’t answered. And that’s the
tragedy. Not that Barbara and didn’t know how much she’d meant to him, but that Elvis died without being able to tell her, without hearing her voice one more time, without receiving whatever comfort that conversation might have provided. There’s a small plaque now at the site where East Tupelo Consolidated School once stood. The building is gone, torn down in the 1960s, but the plaque remains. in memory of Barbara and Mitchell Sullivan who taught Elvis Presley in first grade and told him he
had a gift. Sometimes one moment of belief can change everything. The plaque was funded by Elvis fans who’d heard the story, who’d been moved by it, who understood what it meant to have someone believe in you before you believed in yourself. It was dedicated in 1995, 18 years after Elvis died, 3 years after Barbara and died. Priscilla attended the dedication, stood in the Mississippi heat, looking at this plaque commemorating a woman she’d only met once. A woman whose single act of kindness in 1942 had rippled through
time in ways she’d never imagined. He tried to thank her. Priscilla told the small crowd gathered, “That’s what the call was, an attempt to say thank you, to tell her that what she’d done mattered, that it had changed his life. And even though she didn’t answer, even though the call never connected, the fact that he tried tells us everything. It tells us that Elvis never forgot where he came from. Never forgot the people who believed in him first. Never forgot that before he was a king, he was
just a boy who needed someone to see him. The story teaches something important about timing and reaching out and not waiting. We all have people who’ve shaped us, who’ve given us permission to be who we are, who’ve believed in us when we couldn’t believe in ourselves. And we tell ourselves, “We’ll thank them someday. We’ll reach out. We’ll let them know what they meant.” But someday keeps getting pushed back until someday becomes too late. Elvis tried to reach out. At 1:47 a.m.
on August 16th, 1977, he dialed the number, let it ring three times, but nobody answered, and hours later, he was gone. And the thank you was never delivered. The lesson isn’t about Barbara and not answering. She had no way of knowing. The lesson is that if you’re thinking about reaching out to someone, do it now. Don’t wait until 1:47 a.m. on a night when you’re scared and desperate and running out of time. Do it today, this afternoon, right now. Call the teacher who believed in you.
Email the friend who saw you. Text the person who gave you permission to be yourself. Tell them thank you. Tell them it mattered. Tell them before it’s too late. Because the tragedy isn’t unanswered calls. It’s unmade ones. Have you ever wanted to thank someone who believed in you early on? Someone who saw your potential before anyone else did? Did you reach out or are you still waiting for the right time? What if the right time is now? If the story moved you, share it with someone who believed
in you, tag that teacher. Thank that mentor. Acknowledge that friend who saw you first. Don’t wait. Drop a comment about someone who believed in you before you believed in yourself. Tell their story. Let the world know they mattered. And if you want more stories about the moments that define us, the calls we make and the ones we miss, subscribe and turn on notifications. These stories remind us that we’re all connected by the people who saw us first, who believed in us, who gave us permission
to be special. Elvis tried to say thank you to his. Make sure you say thank you to yours before it’s too late. Before the call goes unanswered.