Clem Hoffstra came from nothing and was determined to make it big, no small dream in a town like Fort Stockton. Starting with small real estate acquisitions, then the mineral rights that were buried below them, Clem worked up a sizable fortune. Like many who go from rags to riches, however, the level of wealth he achieved was never enough.

Along the way he married Margaret who appreciated him not for his ambition, but for the fact that he could make her laugh, probably the most underrated expression of love. Three children were added to the house, which were important to her and millions to the balance sheet, which was important to him.

Much to the dismay of Margaret and the kids, Clem rarely, if ever, made it to any of their band performances, sports games, or awards ceremonies. There was always a deal he was working on, a business trip that had to be taken. Margaret encouraged Clem to slow down, spend time with the family, attend church with them at Almost United Methodist. Clem promised he would, but never did.

His secretary found Clem slumped over at his desk, a half empty bottle of antacids spilled out on the bank statements he’d been going over. 

At the funeral, Pastor Peterson struggled to come up with a worthy eulogy, having never met Clem. Later, Margaret told the attorney to sell everything and put it in a trust; she had no use for the vast sum he left behind. Well, almost no use.

She gave ten percent of Clem’s estate to the church, funding a scholarship in Clem’s name for graduating students from Jim Bowie High School who got degrees in the humanities rather than business. And for herself, she drove to Houston and bought a brand new 1987 Eldorado Starfire Motorhome, the only luxury she allowed herself, but one she shared with those who meant the most to her.

She loaded up the seven grandkids and headed out to the Grand Canyon, making sure they had the times of their lives. A month later, she took her aging parents and all her siblings to see Mount Rushmore, all of them traveling in the finest luxury available. She took the seven ladies that served with her on the altar committee to Las Vegas and gave them each a thousand dollars to play the slots, their winnings providing the new baptistry and altar hangings that changed with the seasons.

Though most of her guests never knew it, Clem was along for every trip she treated her friends to, his urn stowed down below in a compartment next to the generator, in between the first aid kit and extra blankets. Margaret took comfort knowing that he was finally taking the trips he’d missed out on, while doing it in the lap of luxury that he had worked so hard to attain.

On the first year anniversary of Clem’s death, Margaret loaded up the Eldorado with supplies, had her hair done over at the Klip-N-Dye, and told Trixie she was going on a solo journey. She filled up the double basin sink with ice from the ice maker and had a bottle of pinot grigio nestled in, chilling for the first stop. She buckled the urn into the passenger lounge chair and headed north. In Amarillo she pulled over and filled up the Eldorado, poured a chilled glass of wine and headed towards the New Mexico border. Once in New Mexico, Margaret pulled the big Starfire Eldorado over to the side of the road. She grabbed the small plastic bag with Clem’s ashes from out of the decorative urn sitting on the passenger seat and walked about fifty yards off the road. Waiting for a gust of wind to come up from the east, she opened the bag and shook it, watching Clem’s ashes blow into New Mexico in a dissipating cloud that grew smaller and smaller as it slowly settled over the rough terrain.

They both had finally achieved everything they wanted.