Corey Geiger’s books On a Wisconsin Family Farm and The Wisconsin Farm They Built have collectively won four national awards. Both were largely written on the front porch of the author’s Ephraim property.

How does your connection with Door County influence your writing?

As a sixth-generation farmer, our family seldom took vacations. However, once a year, we would collect every stainless-steel bucket on our farm and hustle up to Door County to pick cherries. We made friends with farm families in the county throughout the years, and even though we were working to pick cherries, the activity was both fun and memorable for our family.

Years later, my wife and I, a pair of Wisconsin dairy farm kids, returned to Door County and bought a cottage between Ephraim and Sister Bay. 

What is your writing process like?

My books are based on my family’s dairy farm in northeast Wisconsin. Unlike most farms, our family business went through the women of our family for three generations – my great-grandmother was even a landowner before women were granted the right to vote. My mother and father purchased the farm in 1981.

My family members are the central characters in my books. I use a creative nonfiction style to bring these 150-year-old stories to life in a way that’s relatable to other families. With copies now sold to all 50 states, readers have shared that the books have been great conversation-starters for multiple generations of their families. Both books feature over 70 historic images.

What, to you, are the most important elements of good writing?

Writing with clarity so people can envision the scenes in their minds, and being vulnerable and open during the writing process. My wife, my mother, an aunt, an uncle and my father-in-law read every story and were given free range to make edits. Then I had two life-long friends who were editors read the books before final submission, too. Their suggestions were invaluable in bringing these stories back to life. 

Do you have any advice about the publishing process?

Authors are the best promoters. Once you write and publish the book, identify your target audience and let your enthusiasm shine. 

While I do many in-person events each year, I’ve found the most beneficial events are ones where I can give presentations paired with pictures and verbally tell stories from the book. It’s about the connection factor. 

EXCERPT: The Wisconsin Farm They Built

He Drove for Gangsters

Prohibition made people rich, and it made people dead. Both may have applied to Uncle Tom. 

“My Pa had three brothers,” recalled Julia (Burich) Pritzl. “Frank was a well driller. Louis was a farm hand. Then there was the well-dressed, dashing lady’s man, Uncle Tom.”

“The last time I ever saw Tom was when he came to our home farm in Reedsville.” Julia remembered seeing her uncle as she peered out the house window as a five-year-old girl in 1923. “He had one fancy maroon-colored car. 

“It was a big, long Buick.” Julia went on, “It had a tire on the side of the fender door.”

“Pa was so worried ‘they’ would find Tom,” Julia said reflecting on the events, not providing much initial detail about the “they” in the story. “So, Pa and Tom hid the shiny maroon Buick upstairs in the old cow barn,” she recalled, noting it was a type of car no one in the area had ever seen or driven up until that point. 

“Somebody must have been chasing him,” she surmised. “Once safely in the second story of the barn, Pa slid the doors closed and braced them shut. Then Pa and Uncle Tom hustled into the house, dimmed the lights, and had an unusually quiet dinner by our family’s standards. 

“Pa was edgy the entire evening. You could just sense it. Tom didn’t talk much either,” said Julia, noting that five girls were sent to bed early that evening.

Young Julia wanted to unravel the mystery. 

The next day, Julia was sneaking around and went into the barn to get a closer look at the car. Her father found her and sternly said, “Don’t come back in the barn, Julia!” He proceeded to bury the car with loose hay. 

That would be Uncle Tom’s last evening on the farm, as John felt his family was being placed in harm’s way.

“Before he left, Pa walked out to the barn and helped Uncle Tom pull the hay off the car.

“Then Pa handed him a gunnysack,” said Julia. “I knew it was filled with food because Ma had been feverishly cooking early that morning and filled it herself. 

“Then Uncle Tom got in the car and drove down our long gravel driveway. Pa stood and watched as the rest of the family remained in the house. 

“We never saw Uncle Tom again,” she said.

“Pa came in the house and was very serious. He called everyone to the dining room table and had us five girls sit down,” said Julia.

“Strycek Tom de mrtvy!” Pa said in his native Bohemian. 

As the oldest daughter started to ask a question, Pa repeated his statement, this time in English. It was just as stern. 

“Uncle Tom is dead!”

“But Pa, he just ate breakfast with us,” interjected a confused five-year-old Julia.

“He’s dead. We had a funeral. He’s buried!” John Burich roared back knowing full well that his five curious daughters were watching the early morning events through the farmhouse window. 

“Remember those three lines,” he thundered as he stared down his five daughters. 

Julia was mightily confused. However, when she glanced over and absorbed the frightened looks on the faces of her four older sisters, she was convinced this was not the time for any more questions. 

“He’s dead. No more questions!” Pa Burich blurted out once again to put the issue to its final rest. 

“For years, our family never uttered the name Tom Burich,” said Julia, who only timidly answered questions on the subject 70 years later.