This First Person column is Margaret Thibault’s experience, He lives in Mayerthorpe, Alta. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please See FAQ.

I never knew the secrets my father hid inside his hard 6-foot-4, 145-pound body until I finally interviewed him for a college project when I was 20 years old.

I realized that I never really knew this man. Before that, I thought I was being bullied by my two older sisters and often pitied them because we never got anything fancy, new, or extra from my father. How he made me work hard for no money on our haywire and binding twine farm, so I sometimes went through his pockets.

Other people had running water, and I could only take turns bathing with my five siblings and my mother once a week in an old tin tub (my father would take sponge baths after we went to bed). I was sure I smelled like our dog because of all the housework I had to do. I didn’t really care about the stink; Like my friend at school, I cared about having running water.

I now realize how lucky I am to be part of a happy farming family. My father was right when he said we should be thankful for everything we have.

We had a huge garden where I regularly ate, laughed with my sisters, and helped plant and harvest.

We had farm-raised beef and I enjoyed helping cut it, looking closely at the different bloody parts of an animal’s body and feeling the slickness.

I learned to read when I was five because my father believed in education and I didn’t want to think that my two sisters, one year and three years older than me, were smarter than me.

Teaches us to survive

I was too young to lean on the low cradle over the well to carry the barrel and water pail in a stone trough with our old horse plodding along, but my father always said we should always be open to learning. The water sparkled crystal clear in the sunlight. It was tantalizingly cold as it poured onto my bare feet and smelled like fresh air after a rainstorm. I didn’t realize then that my father was teaching us to survive.

I remember her often asking in her beautiful Scottish accent: “Occht, what do you need besides food, water, shelter, education and a clear mind?”

When I interviewed him for my project years later, he said that, at 72, it was time for him to tell someone in the family a little about the war years.

“And since you’re a baby, that could be you, too.”

After four hours of listening, it became clear why he raised his children this way.

Between 1916 and 1921 he saw military action in the First World War, the Russian Civil War and the conflicts in India, and at the age of 20 he was a prisoner of war for seven months.

“You learn to survive with very little and live with just the basics for the rest of your life,” he said.

Prison camp

For the first time, he was slowly drawing out stories from his mind, as if he were back in the terrible prison camp.

His voice was strong but sometimes trembled. I felt his hidden pain and understood why he did not talk about his difficulties or hardships. He said the prisoners slept huddled together like little pigs in an outside cage, hoping no one would freeze to death. I thought about my sisters and I snuggled up in our nice, warm bed with duvets to protect us from the winter drafts coming through the leaky windows.

He said they ate grain collected from horse poop and raw meat from a long-dead horse. I thought with little gratitude of the abundant hot meals we devoured three times a day.

He described filling half his helmet with weak broth once a day during the first week of his captivity, and I likened it to the clean well water we drank from a metal bucket when we were thirsty.

Now I understand why our family doesn’t live lavishly.

As her words filtered through my mind that day, I felt incredibly selfish about all the material things I thought I was entitled to and wanted.

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He told so much more, with absolutely no anger or self-pity. Since I couldn’t take notes and listen at the same time, I recorded her soft voice. I was in awe of this amazing, wiry little man with his patched trousers and worn work shirt. I studied his leathery face, wrinkled from the weather, and his strong hands with visible veins that kept him alive, and I felt the warmth of my tears as God spared him to be ours.

My heart filled with loving gratitude for sharing with me what my father had carried for 50 years. At the end of the day, I was no longer “just looking at my dad” – a nice little guy. I was looking at a huge hero.

CBC Edmonton first visited Mayerthorpe in March, and this First Person piece came from a writing workshop at the Mayerthorpe Public Library this fall. You can find more information about CBC’s workshops at: cbc.ca/tellingyourstory.