through me back to my childhood that jackson heights, new york city, scrawled on the floor in front of a black-and-white television watching westerns with my big brother joey dressed up in his special shirt with a trim and snazzy buttons and black cowboy hat and shiny buttons and a leather holster slung around his hips. we pretended to walk the streets of tombstone every week with millions of americans young and old. joey was my hero and marshall earp was his, brave, courageous, bold and jewish. jewish? that is how it all started. and innocent question from a friend who thought correctly i would be intrigued by the incongruity between anything jewish and anything tombstone. this first burst of curiosity about wyatt earp's final resting place that religion was satisfied. i soon learned wyatt, the only man emerged unscathed from the gunfight at the o.k. corral was not jewish but had lived with a jewish woman for nearly 50 years and she buried him next to her parents and brother in a family plot at the synagogue affiliated hills of the eternity cemetery outside san francisco. that was my introduction to mrs. earp. as children when wyatt earp ruled the airwave