"PENNSYLVANIA 6-5000"

Jul 29, 2025

4 min read

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File under "Unexpected Joy"

Original Post Date: 08.12.2020. Revised 07.19.2025.

For those of us who have an obsessive-compulsive disorder, nothing brings more satisfaction than designing, developing, and executing a flawless filing system. Whether it’s alpha/numeric, numeric/alpha, only alpha, or only numeric—when the files on that C: Drive line up like the Rockettes in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, it is a thing of beauty and a joy to behold.

It is surpassed only by the Holy Grail: the three-cut manila folder system. Black text. White labels. Military precision marching in cadence in this particular order: left, middle, right. Left, middle, right. Left, middle, right. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

If something new has to be filed between the left/middle/right that breaks the pattern, the entire system must be overhauled from scratch. It’s no wonder every time I go to my local Office Max™, the team treats me like I'm passing out winning lottery tickets.

I inherited this compulsion from my parents. While my mother was an Olympic-level competitor in this category, it’s my father who consistently brought home the gold.

Dad kept—and meticulously filed by sibling, descendant, event, date, and location—every invitation he received from family in Italy over the past sixty-plus years: baptisms, first communions, confirmations, weddings, birth announcements, death notices, and two ordination ceremonies.

Each keepsake also included a copy of the registered mail receipt for the monetary gift he had sent. There would be no “the check must have fallen out of the mailbag over the Atlantic” on his watch. I assume if thank-you notes had arrived, he would’ve kept—and filed—those too.

With a little extra time (and a stack of manila folders) on my hands this past week, I decided to purge a few old files I’d kept longer than necessary. I began shredding copies of paid receipts from my father’s medical bills—many dating back four or more years. I realized I’d been holding on to them as a way of holding on to him. And it was time to let some of it go.

Document after document made its way through the small shredder. Before long, it looked like R2-D2™ had overstuffed himself with colorful confetti. Half an hour later, I stopped to give the unit a break to avoid blowing a fuse. That’s when I spotted a file labeled “Old Phone Books.”**

I flipped through the first few pages, then stopped.

There it was—on the inside cover—written in my father’s distinct, precise, elegant handwriting:

Tonti Phone Book

But it couldn’t be. This organizational champion couldn’t possibly have contributed to the confusion I found in those pages.

And yet, I offer you a few examples:

Power outage? You might look under “I” for Illuminating Company, or “E” for electricity. Not in this book. You’d look under “L” for lights, of course.
Need a plumber? Don’t check under “P” for plumber, or “W” for water, or “T” for toilet. Nope. You’ll find it under “B” for Biagio because that was the plumber’s first name.
One entry read: furnace man – hot and cold. I assume that meant HVAC, not someone whose reliability was in question.
My parents had two cats: Sarah and Amanda. Where would you find the vet’s number? Not under “S,” for Sarah, “A,” for Amanda, “C” for cats, or even “V” for vet. No—you’d find it under “W” for Willoughby, the name of the town where the vet’s office was located.
My uncle—Dad’s brother— was a FIAT. I wondered why he’d be listed under the name of an Italian car manufacturer. After closer inspection, I realized his name was in four different places, even though he’s lived at the same address for 70 years. You could find Zio Tonino under “F” (family), “I” (Italy), “A” Antonio and “T” (Tonti).

I spent the afternoon paging through this mystery novel, cherishing each moment as I cracked another code. I squealed with delight whenever I figured out the logic and laughed even harder when I it was clear it would remain a mystery.

I can’t fully explain this anomaly in Dad’s usually airtight system. Maybe it was a game he created for himself. Maybe it kept his memory sharp. Or maybe, it was just easier to remember that Biagio was a plumber than to remember they once hired a plumber named Biagio.

In any case, I have no intention of reorganizing this particular family heirloom. It’s perfect—exactly the way he left it.

And maybe there’s a lesson tucked in there, too. Sometimes the thing you’re looking for isn’t filed where logic says it should be. Sometimes it’s tucked somewhere unexpected—in the heart of the chaos—right where it belongs.

Do you have a family artifact — a journal, recipe card, photo, or file — that still makes you laugh, cry, or shake your head in wonder? I’d love to hear what you've held onto — and why.

Dad doing what he did best: read and solve crossword puzzles under the supervision of Sarah, the cat.

(For readers born in this millennium, in the last century, families kept small books next to the home phone. Inside were handwritten telephone numbers for friends, family, and businesses.)