Thank you for visiting Karen Swee's website. Karen had a sudden, massive stroke and died on Monday, March 3, 2008. We are very grateful for all the cards and e-mails and personal expressions of condolence and love.
Please consider making a donation in her name, Karen Swee, to the Highland Park Public Library.
Highland Park
Public Library,
31 North Fifth Ave,
Highland Park, NJ 08904
We will be holding a memorial service for Karen on Saturday, April 5, 2008.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
12:00 noon, at the
Kirkpatrick Chapel on
the Rutgers campus in
New Brunswick, NJ
It is at the corner of George Street and Somerset Streets. For those of you who will be attending by car, after proceeding up the driveway there is plenty of parking to the right of the church. Click here for website of the chapel. It contains more detailed driving directions.
For those of you choosing to travel by train from the north, take the New Jersey Transit Northeast Corridor train to New Brunswick. Walk to the rear end of the platform where you can descend and get off right across the street from the Chapel.
Thank you again for
all your best wishes.
David, Kendra & Julia
Karen H. Swee, author of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of MURDER, passed away suddenly in March. Karen's first novel was highly regarded by scholars of the American Revolution as well as the general reader, and many of them were eagerly awaiting the sequel she had been working on. Karen was a wonderful addition to the mystery and historical novel communities, enthusiastic and always eager to help her fellow writers. She had that rare gift of empathy--the ability to understand and reflect other people’s feelings. This gift made her not only a fine writer, but also a cherished companion and friend. She will be deeply missed.
Death
often arrives unannounced, even in the midst of war. On the 26th day of
February, 1777, I stood in the doorway of Chandler's Mercantile, having
just placed a large order of goods for the tavern kitchen. I took a moment
that sunny morning to enjoy the view down the Raritan River. A graceful
line of sloops, flying the British Union Jack, headed toward Raritan Landing
a mile upriver. With a boom, a cannonball hurtled into the water a few
feet ahead of the lead ship. A thirty-two pounder I assessed, knowledge
I would never have possessed just a few months earlier. That was before
the War for Independence from England arrived at our doorsteps, before
New Brunswick, New Jersey, was an occupied town, and before Raritan Tavern,
where I was tavernmistress, overflowed with young British officers clamoring
for food and lodging. A sailor in the lead sloop, standing in the bow
sounding the fathoms, was drenched when the first cannonball hit the water.
He continued measuring the depth of the shallow river, in spite of frequent,
anxious glances at the tree-covered heights on his right. He had not long
to wait. A second and then a third cannon were fired in rapid succession,
one ball hitting the single mast of his ship, the spar and the furled
sail plummeting to the deck with a mighty crash, burying the sailor beneath.
Chaos ensued as shipmates tried to save him and the little sloop.
I stared in horrified fascination as the war opened its deadly maw directly
in front of me. (click
here to continue)
