A car dealership in my hometown of Albuquerque was selling six to eight new cars a day. I was also told that 72 percent of this dealership's first-time visitors returned for a second visit.

    I was curious. How does a car dealership get 72 percent of its first-time visitors to return? And how can they sell six to eight cars a day in a declining car market?

    When I walked into Saturn of Albuquerque that Friday, the staff there didn't know me from Adam; yet they shared with me their pricing policy, the profit margin on every model, and staff income. They even opened their training manuals for my review and invited me back on Saturday if I wanted more information.

    On Sunday, the day after my second visit to the Saturn store, my wife, Jane, and I were walking as we frequently do. On this particular June morning, Jane gently slipped her hand in mine and said tenderly, ＂I don't know if you remember, but today's my fifth anniversary of being cancer-free.＂ I was surprised, partially because I was embarrassed that I had forgotten and, partially because.... Well, I didn't know what to do with Jane's information.

    The next day, Monday, Jane went off to work teaching school. Still not knowing what to do to mark this special occasion, I did the most impetuous thing I've ever done in my life: I bought a new Saturn. I didn't pick the color or the model, but I paid cash and told them I'd bring Jane in on Wednesday at 4:30. I told them why I was buying the car.

    On Tuesday, it dawned on me that Jane always wanted a white car. I called the sales consultant at Saturn, and I asked him if he had anything white in the store. He said he had one left but he couldn't guarantee it'd still be available on Wednesday at 4:30 because they were selling so fast. I said I'd take my chances and asked him to put it in the showroom.

    Wednesday came. Unexpectedly, someone in our family was admitted to the hospital. So, it wasn't until 9:30 Saturday morning when we finally made our way to the Saturn store. Jane had never been in a Saturn store. When we went through the front door, the Lord took control of her feet and her mouth. She saw that little white Saturn coupe all the way across the showroom floor. She quickly passed a multi-colored sea of automobiles, sat in the little white Saturn and said, ＂Oh, what a pretty little car. Can I have a new car?＂ I said, ＂No. Not until our son graduates from college.＂ She said, ＂I'm sick and tired of driving that old Dodge, I want a new car.＂ I said, ＂I promise, just three more semesters and he'll be out.＂

    Next, Jane walked around to the front of the car. As she looked it over, she let out the most blood-curdling, shrill scream I'd ever heard in 29 years of marriage.

    Now, before I tell you why Jane screamed, let me tell you what the sales consultant had done. He had ordered a large, professionally engraved sign (white letters on blue). The sign stood alone on the hood of the little white Saturn coupe. It said ＂Congratulations, Jane. This car is yours. Five years cancer-free. Let's celebrate life. From Team Saturn＂ Every employee at Saturn of Albuquerque had signed the back of that sign.

    Jane saw it, screamed, collapsed in my arms and cried loudly. I didn't know what to do. I was in tears. I took out my invoice (发票) from the previous Monday, pointing to the white coupe, said, ＂No, honey, this car isn't yours. I bought you this one.＂ I tapped the invoice with my index finger. Jane said, ＂No, I want this one right here.＂

    While this conversation was going on, there was no one in the store. The sales consultant had arranged it so that we could share the moment alone. Even so, it's impossible to have a lot of privacy when so many people are standing outside the showroom windows looking in. When Jane screamed and collapsed in my arms, I saw everybody outside applaud and begin to cry.