The split screen of the debate was priceless: Trump spewing nonsense, a perpetual scowl on his face, and Harris gazing at him in wonder and amusement as he set a match to his candidacy.
Norman Rockwell was likely entrenched in his daily routine on that long-ago summer afternoon, one that included riding his bike down Main Street and observing passersby from the expansive northern-facing windows of his second-floor studio in Stockbridge.
