My earliest memories of my father, Charles Dolby, are of him building things.  He expanded the house I grew up in and built a lake cottage that we spent time in every summer.  He was a city fireman, which meant rushing into burning buildings, and he once broke his foot in the line of duty.  He had a kind of quite courage that showed itself most clearly toward the end of his life—when he was forced to endure the debilitating effects of a stroke.  As I’ve gotten older, I have appreciated how hard that was on him.  Just to stay alive was an act of courage.   Thanks, Dad.