Service Call Chronicles I

  Tripping Along the Razor’s Edge

“Division of Comedy and Tragedy”, © 2025 Eina Schroeder

Servicing technology in people’s places of work and life can make for some interesting memories. While I mostly remember things, places and activities there are times when the people (and pets) themselves stand out. Not always in the best possible light, sometimes it’s comedic, sometimes it’s bland and sometimes it’s downright frightening.

Being the “The Tech Lady” often meant tripping along on the razor's edge between the lines of comedy and tragedy, where each doorbell ring unveiled a new stage in the theater of human psychology. Some days, I would find myself reveling in the warm spotlight of joy; other times, I felt thrust into shadows that made my skin crawl.

“Fake Elvis and Mini-me”, © 2025 Eina Schroeder

One of my fondest memories was the unexpected Elvis impersonation duo. Their home is the place where rhinestones catch in the afternoon light like tiny disco balls scattered around. The place where a father and son duo transformed their living room into Graceland-in-miniature, their matching jumpsuits a testament to dreams passed down like precious heirlooms. The boy, barely tall enough to reach the kitchen counter, already mastered the signature lip curl, his innocence wrapping around each "uh-huh" like a tender embrace. Elvis lives! In their world, every moment was a dress rehearsal for happiness. One of the most adorable acts I’ve been “graced” with seeing.

“Doggy Raspberries”, © 2025 Eina Schroeder

Just down the street, in a house where laughter took a different tune, a four-legged comedian with a sensitive tummy provided unexpected entertainment. This little dog, a master of unintentional humor, had learned to associate certain sounds with its own symphony of gastric adventures. Each raspberry sound I made sent its head swiveling toward its rear end, like a furry compass pointing south, its expression a mixture of recognition and resignation. Sometimes the simplest things bridge the gap between species – even if that bridge is built on shared bathroom humor.

“Obese Evil”, © 2025 Eina Schroeder

Then there are the homes where darkness lurks behind drawn curtains, where tension hangs thick as fog. The office became a cramped theater of threat, with a husband's presence filling the doorway like an eclipse blocking out hope. His knife was drawn, meant to rip open a small box, but instead became a conductor's baton directing a symphony of fear inside of me. Waving his weapon at me, his voice and the overall emotion in the room turned frightening. His wife, a reluctant actress, performed her steps of submission with practiced precision, her nervousness a trembling melody beneath the surface. I felt so bad for her and hope she was alright after I fled.

In these moments, when the air grows thick with threat and the exit seems miles away, you learn that some shows aren't worth staying for. Some shows only deserve a quick and quiet exit. Sometimes the bravest act is simply knowing when to lower the curtain and walk away, letting your footsteps echo down the street like a drumbeat of survival.

“Threshold To the Unknown”, © 2025 Eina Schroeder

Every door has a threshold to the unknown – laughter, fear, celebration, or survival. We carry our tools in bags made of canvas and hope, never quite knowing if we'll need a screwdriver or an escape plan. But that's the nature of service calls: each one a story waiting to be told, each threshold a boundary between worlds, each encounter a reminder that behind every screen and machine we fix lies a human tale, for better or worse.

I'm open to writing for your site, contributing a guest post, or being interviewed for your content. If you'd ever like to collaborate on anything at all, don't hesitate to reach out, I'd love to hear from you! For the price of a cup of coffee 🍵, you too can help support cybersecurity education for all. Be a winner in the fight against scammers, show your support.

Karate Chops and Canvas Dreams

 A Story of an Uncle’s Love, Art, and the Legacy He Left Behind

“Angel Nebula’” by Brian Schroeder, 1989, original, © Eina Schroeder

In the tapestry of family memories, some threads shine brighter than others, even when woven with sadness. My Uncle Brian was one of those brilliant threads — a black belt who practiced karate moves while I played piano, an artist who could capture both the earth and stars on canvas, and a man who could create the most amazing sounds with just his mouth. He was a walking contradiction: immensely talented yet deeply troubled, capable of bringing joy to others while harboring his own darkness.

I remember enduring him during my piano practice, his mock karate chops never quite landing, teaching me focus without meaning to. These small moments defined him — spontaneous, playful, and genuine. But behind his smile lurked a shadow that would eventually consume him.

Life has a way of unraveling slowly at first, then all at once. Like a painting left in the rain, the colors begin to run together until the original image becomes unrecognizable. First his apartment, then his girlfriend, and finally his sense of home — all washed away, leaving behind only his beloved poodles, which found their way into my inexperienced care. Those dogs, with their sharp minds and untrained habits, became a metaphor for the chaos that depression can bring into ordered lives.

“Parallel Lines of Yin and Yang” by Brian Schroeder, 1989, original © Eina Schroeder

California called to him like a siren, promising new beginnings, but instead delivered him back to Illinois, homeless and carrying a death wish in his pocket. When he came to live with us while my children were small, it was like watching a familiar movie where you know the ending but hope somehow it might change this time. He was still funny, still kind, still Uncle Brian — but now with a transparency to him, as if he was slowly fading from our world.

His last gift to us was time — precious months filled with laughter and connection, even as his body betrayed him. The VA hospital’s sterile halls became his final canvas, painting a picture none of us wanted to see. His artwork, now split between family and friends, remains frozen in time — beautiful pieces caught in a limbo of grief and ownership, waiting for permission to live new lives on other people’s walls.

Now he rests beside my father, brothers reunited in ash if not in life. Their urns stand together on a shelf, a permanent exhibition of family bonds that transcend the physical world.

“NGC 142,834,436” by Brian Schroeder, 1989, original ©Eina Schroeder

The moral of this story isn’t about the dangers of depression or the importance of getting help, though these lessons ring true. It’s simpler and more complex than that: Love doesn’t end when someone leaves us. It transforms, becoming something new — like art waiting to be shared, or memories waiting to be revisited. Sometimes holding on too tightly to what remains can prevent us from honoring what was meant to be given freely to the world, just as Uncle Brian gave his art, his humor, and his love freely to those around him.

The greatest tribute we can offer to those we’ve lost isn’t preserving their memory in amber, unchanged and untouchable, but allowing their legacy to continue touching lives, evolving and growing, just as they would have wanted. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is simply let go, not of the love or the memories, but of the grief that keeps their gifts locked away from a world that still needs them.

“Winter Line” 2024, original, Eina Schroeder

I’m open to writing for your site, contributing a guest post, or being interviewed for your content. If you’d ever like to collaborate on anything at all, don’t hesitate to reach out, I’d love to hear from you! You could also buy me a coffee and help support cybersecurity education while learning how to keep yourself safe online.

The Stories SHE Chose

 The Imbalance of Power and Control using Religion

I remember the faux leather-bound book, its gold-leafed edges catching the afternoon light as mom pulled it from the shelf. "The Children's Bible," it proclaimed in cheerful letters, but there was nothing childlike about the images within. (I still have this horrible tome in my library) She would gather me close, her voice taking on that special tone she used when she wanted to appear nurturing – yet, her eyes remained cold, calculating, and what I now know as conniving.

"Today, we'll read about the flood," she'd say, or "Let's learn about the plagues of Egypt." Never the gentler parables, never the stories of healing or hope. She chose tales of destruction, of punishment, of divine wrath. The illustrations were vivid – waters rising around desperate faces, firstborn sons lying still in their beds, armies drowning in crimson seas.

I was five when she first showed me the woodcut of Abraham raising the knife above Isaac. "See how much Abraham loved God?" she'd ask. "He was willing to sacrifice his own son." She'd pause then, looking at me with those cold, dark eyes. "Would you be that obedient?"

Night after night, the stories came. Lot's wife turned to salt, her fate sealed by a single glance backward. Job's children crushed beneath a collapsed roof. Daniel in the lions' den, though she always lingered more on the fate of those who were thrown in afterward. The images would follow me into my dreams, mixing with her unpredictable rages, her silent treatments, her manipulation of truth until I could no longer tell what was real.

"This is love," she'd say, closing the book. "God punishes those who deserve it, just like I do." Her smile never reached her eyes. "It's all for your own good."

Decades later, I still find myself questioning every story I'm told, every declaration of love, every assertion of authority. The Bible sits untouched on my shelf, its pages heavy with memories of those afternoons when faith became entangled with fear, when love became confused with control, when truth became whatever she decided it should be. It’s languishing, covered in dust and faded tears.

Sometimes I wonder if she chose those stories deliberately, if she recognized in those ancient tales of power and punishment a mirror of her own desires. Did she see herself in the role of divine authority, wielding stories like weapons, shaping my young mind with carefully chosen horrors? Or was she simply passing on the trauma she herself had inherited, teaching the only version of love she knew?

The stories remain with me, but they've changed. In the flood, I see not just destruction but the rainbow that followed. In Job's tale, I find not just suffering but the courage to question and carry on. In Daniel's survival, I discover not the gruesome fate of his accusers but the triumph of truth over power. I'm learning to read between the lines, to find my own meaning in these ancient words, to separate the wisdom from the fear she tried to instill.

how a mother's lessons could leave such deep and lasting scars

But still, in quiet moments, I remember that little girl, wide-eyed before graphic pages, trying to understand how love could look so much like terror, how truth could feel so much like doubt, and how a mother's lessons could leave such deep and lasting scars.

I'm open to writing for your site, or contributing a guest post, or being interviewed for your content. If you'd ever like to collaborate on anything at all, don't hesitate to reach out, I'd love to hear from you!