Mrs. Philipina Boelling was an immigrant, a pioneer, a wife, mother and businesswoman in Clatsop County more than 150 years ago. She was also the mother-in-law of Capt. George Flavel.

Each one of our lives is a story, with death usually being the ending. “Happily” or not, it’s “ever after” to be certain. But it seems that for some of us, there is an epilogue.

For more than 100 years now, I’ve lain beneath the Oregon soil, slipping from memory as those who knew me eventually passed on. Over time, my name became known only as a footnote in the story of one more well-known, my son-in-law, Capt. George Flavel. But my story was a drama in its own right and on Oct. 26, the last Sunday in October, 2008, it will be told.

On that day, I will rise from the past and stand above my dusty remains. There, in the shadow of the tallest monument in Ocean View Cemetery, where my grave overlooks the water, I will speak as I have not spoken since being buried so long ago. For a few hours before nightfall, I will address hundreds of visitors, telling them of my adventures, my tragedies and my fortunes.

My story began in Bavaria, where I was born and lived for my first 13 years. In that, the first of my teen years, my family set forth to America. For many, the long ocean journey toward a new country with a foreign culture, food, music and language would be quite adventure enough. This was only the first chapter of my story and the struggle to assimilate was only my first obstacle to overcome.

Having made my way to Cincinnati with my family, I lived a scant three years before I met a German cabinetmaker who made a fine living in the manufacturing of furniture. At 35, he was more than twice my age, and his business was established enough to support a wife and children.

We married happily and started our family, and what a family it was! Eleven children in all, before we were done. And though I’d buried all but four of them by the time I myself was interred, their births each shine in my memory as the most spectacular and rewarding of my adventures.

Matt Hensley, left, portrayed a figure from Astoria’s past during last year’s Talking Tombstones event at Pioneer Cemetery in Clatsop Plains.It was with small children my husband and I made our way across the wild country of America. My husband’s company having been bought out, he purchased a prairie outfit of two wagons, two horses and 10 yoke of oxen and we became pioneers. Setting off in the spring to have the longest journey possible without meeting winter’s deadly snow, we set off on our seven-month journey with the intention of starting a new manufacturing business in one of the new cities popping up in the Oregon Territory. For my husband’s business, we carried with us a set of mill irons, a water-powered sawmill and a whip saw, items which came in handy when we reached The Dalles and needed to cut lumber to make flat boats for traveling down the Cascades. It was a blessing to have the assistance of the natives in the area to take our boats over the rapids.

Rachel Fackler played a member of the Hobson family at Talking Tombstones IV.We arrived in Astoria in February 1848 and made a home on Youngs River, two miles below the falls. My husband had barely begun cutting the wood for his sawmill when he had news of the gold rush down in California. Taking with him an ox wagon full of supplies, he joined the stampede of miners south. I was left with the children to make do with what molasses, flour and coffee I could afford, but we were not starving. Salmon was plentiful, we had our garden, and the eggs and meat of our chickens rounded out our meals nicely. That is, until a fire destroyed part of our garden and frightened away many of the chickens.

Our second winter in the area was the most bitter in memory, according to those who had been here previously, and with no word from my husband, I thought it best to move the family into town and away from the Indians who had destroyed my husband’s unfinished mill.

Kate Rambeau joined the ghostly fun as a character from Clatsop County’s past at Talking Tombstones IV.It was shortly after I moved my children into town that my husband returned with $1,500 in his pouch from mining. The gold had been plentiful and my husband had recovered much, but much was spent on supplies which were hard to come by in the remote area where he mined. Still, it was a tidy sum and enabled us to purchase a small hotel and boarding house, which we ran in success and comfort for many years.

Our children grew up, married well and gave us grandchildren to bounce on our knees. I kept myself busy working toward the advancement of the community. As for my husband, he would have a few more careers in his life. He became a farmer and county treasurer before finally retiring, and did a fair job of both, and even if I do speak with the pride of a wife, I believe it is so.

It saddened us to bury five of our children together, and after his death, I buried two more. These dark days remain with me as they would with any mother, as sharp sparks of pain in an otherwise happy and exciting life.

Melanie Wyegardt and Steve Nurding shared stories of deceased residents at last year’s Talking Tombstones event.Of course, mine is not the only story buried in the grounds here. It’s not the most dramatic or well-known, it’s not the most tragic or glorious. Mine was simply the story of a woman in the 1800s and it encompasses elements of every immigrant, pioneer, wife, mother and businesswoman of my era.

I hope you’ll consider this my formal invitation to attend. I’m afraid I’ve not had time to hire a printer and send out cards properly. There will be others around me also rising to tell their stories and we all look forward to seeing you. Until then, may the world bless you and keep you well. And most of all, of course, we hope you’re enjoying your own story.

Warmest regards,

Mrs. Philipina Boelling

Special thanks to Mac Burns and Sam Rascoe for their assistance with this feature.