Franklin Dewitt Mosley

Franklin Dewitt Mosley died in Savannah on September 8, 2026. He was seventy-six. Born there on November 14, 1949, he grew up in a church that had a better piano than it had a budget, and he learned both. He could hear a sour unison before the choir did. He became a tuner because a hymn that is out of tune is still a hymn, but it asks more of the congregation than it should. For decades he kept instruments alive in sanctuaries, school auditoriums, and front rooms where a child was almost ready to quit. He arrived with a bag of felt and a patience that did not look like patience from the street. He would not rush a pin. He would not flatter a cheap upright. He would tell a pastor the truth about a soundboard and then find a way to make Sunday possible anyway. He played for funerals more often than weddings and never charged a widow what the union card said. He married Claudine Mosley in 1972. They raised two daughters in a shotgun that grew a garden of tomatoes against the lane. Claudine taught first grade. Franklin grilled on a Saturday and considered collards a year-round crop if you were stubborn. After his hearing thinned in the high notes he still came when a church called, moving slower, listening harder. Neighbors remember a man who wore a clean shirt to a dusty job, who could sit through a long offering without checking a clock, and who hummed while he worked as if the piano were a conversation. He loved the river at evening, a plate of shrimp and grits he did not finish, and the particular quiet after the last hymn. He died in Savannah, in the heat he had always preferred to a clean cold. The benches are still there. The pitch will drift. Someone else will have to hear it.