From “A Tale of Two Marriages”

We’re bouncing across the prairie in a worse-for-wear Ford Explorer, Gail Anderson-Dargatz sitting in the truck’s box with a picnic basket secured between her ankles, Floyd, her hubby, at the wheel. Floyd suddenly stops and gets out to mark the site of a killdeer nest with a shovel so he won’t drive over the four tiny speckled eggs in it on our way back. Then we’re off again, headed for a driedout slough. “We had another pickup once,” says Anderson-Dargatz, a big woman dressed in gumboots, black stretch pants, and a brown zip-up jersey. “It was green and it looked like it had been shot. You know how the rust makes those little holes? We called it `Fugly,’ for `fucking ugly.”’