by Curtis | Volume I
I owe my great ARAMCO experience to my father, Rolf C. Christophersen, and my mother, Melitza Angelich Christophersen. This son of an Iowa bank cashier and daughter of an immigrant Montana merchant gave my sister, Jerry Karen, and me a vigorous start in life with our...
by Curtis | Volume I
In the spring of 1944, while parts of the world were trying to settle global differences, my father set out for Saudi Arabia. He was a mature, robust, 35-year-old machinist from Iowa, living in a trailer court in Garvey, California, with his wife, Melitza, and seven...
by Curtis | Volume I
My mother, sister, and I did not follow Dad until February of 1949 although we had several false alarms that made us think we might get there by Christmas 1948. I think we were on a fairly low priority as far as the company was concerned–the infamous housing...
by Curtis | Volume I
In 1949, there were fewer than 100 children in the Dhahran Senior Staff School; it was actually in the low nineties, kindergarten through ninth grade. There were fewer students at Ras Tanura and Abqaiq. The school was on the trimester schedule and we followed the New...
by Curtis | Volume I
My school vacation routine (April, August, December) was to awaken early and read until Dad left for work. I’d have breakfast and head for the recreation area. If the family had just come back from long leave, which was 90 days, I had catch-up school until the first...
by Curtis | Volume I
We Scouts met early at the south fence where it angled to include the Davies mansion, the only two story residence in Dhahran. It was clear and hot! We were headed to al Azzaziyah spit and our course of ESE would take us just south of the runway and through Bedouin...
by Curtis | Volume I
The Dhahran to Al Khobar road of the late nineteen forties was sandy, rocky, and partially surfaced with oil . It passed by the Arab police station, Saudi camp, the U. S. Consulate, the hobby farm, emhoff gardens, Dhahran Rolling Hills golf course, the airport, and...
by Curtis | Volume I
When we moved into 1047, a portable on Dhahran’s east side near the head of seventh street, we were on the edge of the desert. The town had several areas and they were named with humor intended: Skunk Hollow, the Flats, Whiskey Gulch, Easter Egg Row, etc....
by Curtis | Volume I
My first memory of going to Arabia is the doctor visit. We received extensive directions for passports, shipping, and medical requirements over the months before we left. After physicals to determine our ability to withstand the rigors of the eastern province of Saudi...
by Curtis | Volume I
In the early 1950s, a KLM flight bound for Dhahran encountered an unexpected shamaal on arrival. The captain made several approaches and was unable to land. Bahrain was socked in, too. The pilot steered for Basra at the head of the Gulf but en route, Dhahran’s...
by Curtis | Volume I
Dad told the story about the first refrigerated shipment of fresh food: celery. He said everyone in the room was crunching their celery like there was no tomorrow. That was before the new dining hall, but it illustrates the importance one places on quality of life....
by Curtis | Volume I
On Christmas Eve the few hundred Christian oil workers and their families gathered to see the Nativity. We were on the Dhahran ball field huddled in the bleachers. There were fires, and desert wood smoke seasoned the air. Camels, goats, sheep, and donkeys lent their...
by Curtis | Volume I
I think we lived in Skunk Hollow, the Flats, or the Sticks. I could never keep it straight. You’d have to ask Steve Furman, who was Dhahran’s resident historian youngster. He lived there throughout the early development of Dhahran. The town was...
