Robert Dash was a man with wonderful hands — for writing, for painting, for gardening, for talking, and for petting his beloved Norwich terrier, Barnsley.
He was a man with a proper air, a garrulous nature and an intimidating intelligence, often punctuating his winding sentences with a thoughtful “yes” when he wasn’t speaking Latin, Greek or quoting poetry.
He was a man of contradictions—genuinely caring about those he had barely met, hosting parties and guests at his home while keeping his distance, and equally content reading classic literature or experimenting with new plant material, knee-deep in soil.
Mr. Dash knew who he was. There was only one man like him. And there will never be another.
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