In the late 1940s, two young women who worked and worshipped in New York City drove out to meet with the Church in the Wildwood, near Bernardsville, New Jersey. Seeking help, they unloaded on Clinton and Flora Davidson about their difficulties in reaching street children. “Brother Davidson, we’re discouraged. The kids can’t associate their brownstones nor our hallowed halls with the simple stories of Jesus.” Their pleas clarified ideas Clinton had been thinking of to get city children away from their grimy walk-ups.
“They need so badly to be taken from the noisy steel-and-glass of Manhattan,” said one. “What they’ve been denied is
Could the long-vacant estate adjacent to Davidson’s home be a key to the answer? He contacted the realtor and was soon being shown an immense mansion, surrounded by its sizable acreage. “Oh yes,” the agent said, “its owners named it Oakdene, but folks around here have got to calling it the English Castle. The first part, was built early in the 1890s in something of a Tudor-Revival style, by Charles W. Ide, who was from Brooklyn and president of the New York Cotton Exchange, They lived in it about a decade. It then sold to another wealthy man, William Scott Pyle, who got rich marketing a washing powder that became a top seller in the last half of the 1800s. Eventually sold out to Procter and Gamble.” The Pyles expanded the mansion to thirty-six rooms. A lawyer named Grant had it until he died a few years back.”
“The house has been vacant for some time.” Clinton began his bargaining in words the realtor would hardly notice. “To get it back into usable condition would take a considerable investment.” In his mind he organized his points. “It doesn’t take long for any space left vacant to deteriorate.” He looked about. “And these grounds are a tangled mess!”
Clinton pretended to talk to himself as he noted one area after another needing repairs or replacements. Looking at the sunken garden and coming across the statues within it, Clinton made his way alone through lush overgrowth. Lord, if we could bring kids here from the city to experience life in such a peaceful, safe place . . . . .
Flora cautioned, “If waifs who’ve only played among arguing street gangs and the grind of construction equipment, dear man, mightn’t they be frightened by crickets and birds in this wild?” They swung gently together on the slatted glider
The following week he laid a stunning proposal before the close-knit little Church in the Wildwood. “Most of you know I’ve been dreaming of a place of restoration for little ones from the tenants. I’m happy to report that we’re getting closer to the first big step,” he said.
Some moved to the edge of their chairs and one stared in anticipation. Another wanted to burst in but held her tongue.
“I’m asking whether all of you could help me secure the huge old mansion and its grounds next to us here.”
No one could speak. What might be required of them?
“I have managed to get the agent down to a price of $40,000, which is remarkable for that property. However, I have to tell you there are indications that local politics could block our securing this wonderful estate.” When they came back together, members had committed themselves as deeply as they could on finances, and the Davidsons made up the remainder.
In spite of the community’s active uses of the chapel, the group found neighbors opposing a camp of any kind being established in their exclusive midst. Are we to be defeated before we even got going? Most members felt thwarted, all were scared or discouraged. They began to pray.
The following week, the Wildwood church couldn’t help but believe that God over-ruled officialdom when, at the next meeting in town, two deciding voters didn’t show up. Also, there had been something of a feud between the building inspector and zoning board members. Wonder of wonders, permission was granted for the camp!
“Not only that,” Clinton couldn’t help but smile, “there were no requirements for revisions to property. If any had been major, it could have been costly indeed.”
He was vastly relieved but knew he had to calm their elation. “Folks, this was only our first step. We’re a long way from making this dream come true.” Soberly, he continued, “I have neither the time nor the capabilities to put together a proper team that has to be. I’m too busy and I simply don’t have those kinds of gifts. Its going to require leadership, not to speak of teachers and counselors who can direct and inspire the whole thing.”
Dare he hope for charisma in a leader? After telephoning contacts in Kentucky where he’d grown up, he scribbled names and numbers of friends in Arkansas. He called officers at Christian colleges to tell them how his hopes of rescuing poor little street children had grown. “But we really need a Godly man to head up and manage the whole thing,” he concluded.
The critical call came from Eddie Couch, just over in Manhattan. “Brother Davidson, remember the remarkable Irishman who worked with us for a time? He’s moved his family upstate but he may be your man.” Clinton sat down and got out his pen. “From those Eddie Grindley brought into our times of worship here,” Couch went on, “we know he has toe-holds among multi-nationals on the East Side. No, he doesn’t have seminary training--not much formal education for that matter--but there’s no one who can match his drive. Nor his unabashed love for people. Children especially.”
“What experience does he have? Any organizational abilities?”
“He and his wife worked as both cooks and house parents in a children’s home in Arkansas. Then after they left us they served well at Camp Hunt and with a little church nearby. His spirit just spills into everyone around him.”
Responsible people from upstate New York confirmed Couch’s words. “Yes, he and his wife Stella can cook for crowds and they’ve built trust with grown-ups down to toddlers. Wherever they go.”
Some time back, Clinton had heard from his son Jack that he and Eddie had gained each other’s confidence during the Grindley’s time in Searcy. That pretty well cinched the case. Winter was losing its grip in early 1951 when he got on the phone to invite this remarkable couple down to get the camp underway.
This post is excerpted from Sam Lanford's For the Children, a story about the life of Eddie Grindly and the early Shiloh years. Sam was Summer Staff Camp staff in 1952 and was an active member of the Eastside Church of Christ, which was closely associated with Shiloh from it's beginning until the mid 1970's.
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