On the road from here to there, as usual for a late afternoon, traffic on the suburban main drags is congested. People in the know are using alternative residential cut-throughs to avoid stop lights. The speed limit for a certain popular two-lane road that bypasses the traffic jams on Route 19 is 30 miles per hour. But on this day, as on most days, everyone is moving along five to 10 miles faster.

Then, suddenly, a big, yellow school bus traveling in the southbound lane rattles to a halt.

From the driver's side, an octagonal metal sign flips out to render vehicles traveling in both directions motionless. "Stop" it says, and everyone does; a few people in cars and three guys in a pickup truck, all without hesitation or complaint.

With traffic at a standstill, bus No. 103's door cranks opens to eject four little kids. The first kid to pop out is a girl who is immediately followed by what appears to be her duplicate, and then by what appears to be her triplicate. Maybe they're just two other little girls of close age and identical stature, but the way they move hints at them being sisters. The girls look to be 6 or 7. Bringing up the rear is a 9- or 10-year-old boy.

One by one, under the weight of disproportionately large backpacks, all four kids drop to the ground like paratroopers, storming the front lawn of a well maintained two-story brick colonial located directly to the right of the stationary bus's open door.

Then, just shy of reaching the house, as the kids turn to wave good-bye to their bus driver, friends, and classmates, a large golden dog bounds out to greet them. Who let him out is a mystery. He wags and wiggles, and when the kids don't stop waving to fuss over him, he reconsiders his position at the head of the pack, turns tail to fall in line behind, and puts his energy into herding them through the open front door.

This triggers laughter from the kids, and grins from the captive audience.

It's 3:33 p.m., and the sky above Pittsburgh is an unseasonable Carolina blue; the air, an uncharacteristically warm 54 degrees. Something about the brief interlude is beautiful and hopeful, and, for one magic midwinter minute, the world, or at least the small corner we inhabit by virtue of living in the United States, is perfect. Stop-sign bearing school buses are government regulation at its most unassailable; logical and protective of the truly innocent. The scene is an authentic if idealistic American vignette in which all kids are happy, transported from a day of quality education back to safe, suburban homes by accountable bus drivers; then, shepherded inside by tail-wagging dogs.

Everyone seems intent on doing their part to sustain the magic of the moment, and if anyone has a beef about bus No. 103 taking its time about retracting its stop sign, you'd never know by looking at them. Everyone's attention remains riveted on the kids and dog. Nobody honks or fiddles with a cell phone to pass the time. Everyone -- the people in cars, the three guys in the truck -- is smiling about the antics in the yard and then, after the raucous crew disappears behind a closing door, fleetingly at each other.

When bus No. 103 finally sees fit to lower its stop sign and shudder back into drive to ease away from the curb, nobody registers resentment by gunning their motor, whizzing past to hurl an expletive at the operator or gesturing rudely. In fact, as traffic prepares to pick up where it left off, everyone looks uplifted, in spite of, or because of, being momentarily inconvenienced to witness life at its best. The prevailing mood is big-hearted, friendly, and tolerant, and as quintessentially American as, well, traffic jams, pushing speed limits, and not yielding to pedestrians in crosswalks.

But what a bright, shining moment, nevertheless.