He Gave His Land for a Park. They Sold It for a $10 Million Data Center. (1999–2025)
You know that feeling when you hear a story that just stops you cold? This is one of those.
In 1999, a farmer named Mr. Bland did something quietly extraordinary. He looked out at the kids in his neighborhood,kids who had no real place to play,and decided to give away 87 acres of his land. For $10. Not a typo. Ten dollars.
The deal was simple. The city would hold the land "in trust for future use as parkland." A place for baseball. For camping. For generations of families to gather. A promise, sealed with a deed.
Fast forward to 2025. That same land is about to become a 135,000-square-foot data center. And the people who live 500 feet from the site are fighting for their health, their property values, and a promise made nearly three decades ago,a promise that a city and a developer are systematically dismantling. Let me walk you through the whole thing.
The 1999 Promise: 87 Acres, $10, and a Handshake
Taylor, Texas, is a small city about 30 miles northeast of Austin. Back in the late '90s, it was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone.
Pamela Griffin grew up there. And when I say "grew up there," I mean she and her ten brothers and sisters ran wild through the fields behind their home, playing baseball until the streetlights came on. The land behind their lot belonged to a farmer the kids called Mr. Bland.
"He'd see us play and he'd throw the balls back to us and wave at us when he was on his tractor," Griffin later told 404 Media.
One day, Mr. Bland had a quiet conversation with Griffin's father. "I see the kids don't really have nowhere to play," he said. "I'm thinking about giving this land for parkland because these kids need somewhere to play."
And then he did it. In 1999, the Cromwell family (the "Blands" in local memory) deeded 87 acres of land to a public trust. The price? Ten dollars. The condition, written directly into the deed: the land was to be used as a park. No factories. No warehouses. No data centers. A park.
Think about that for a second. A man who didn't have to give anything gave everything. And he did it for kids he barely knew.
From Parkland to Payday (2003–2025)
Here's where the story turns.
The Texas Parks and Wildlife Foundation received the property in 1999. In 2003, they transferred it to the Williamson County Park Foundation. That same year, it went to the City of Taylor. So far, so good,still a park.
But in 2005, something shifted. The city updated its comprehensive plan and quietly rezoned the property as "industrial." Nobody made a big deal about it. No public hearings. No headlines. Just a bureaucratic change that would matter enormously years later.
In 2008, the city sold the land to their own Economic Development Corporation for $15,000. A few thousand dollars. Then, in 2025, that same corporation sold it to Blueprint Projects for $10 million.
Let me do that math for you: a 66,567% markup. That's not a typo either.
The land changed hands like a shell game,nonprofit to foundation to city to development corporation to developer. Each transfer made the original deed restriction a little fuzzier, a little harder to enforce. And by the time Blueprint bought it, the city's argument was simple: the property is zoned industrial, and we can't refuse a project that meets zoning standards.
"We Used to Play Baseball There." The Human Cost
Let's pause the legal analysis for a moment. Because behind every deed and every zoning code is a person. In this case, a lot of them.
A Community Steeped in History
Griffin's family has lived on that land for generations. Her grandmother originally bought property on the outskirts of Taylor because, as Griffin put it, "Back then, Black and brown people weren't allowed to buy in the city limits of Taylor. So we had to buy on the outskirts."
That piece of history matters. The families living near the proposed data center didn't choose to be next to an industrial site. They were pushed there, decades ago, by laws and customs that treated them as second-class citizens. And now, a massive concrete facility is being dropped into their backyard,literally.
The proposed data center will sit just 500 feet from Griffin's home, nestled between a power substation and the railroad tracks.
500 Feet from Homes: A Health and Safety Crisis
When Griffin first heard about the data center, she had no idea what one even was. "I was like, 'what is a data center?' So me and my sisters and my brothers, we all got together and we started looking it up and we said, 'oh, this is not good for the neighborhood.'"
She's right. It's not good. And the research backs her up.
- Noise pollution: Data centers rely on massive cooling fans and diesel backup generators. One source measured levels of 85–90 decibels,enough to disrupt sleep, elevate blood pressure, and increase stroke risk.
- Air pollution: The diesel generators and fossil fuel power sources emit nitrogen oxides and fine particulate matter, increasing rates of respiratory diseases, cardiovascular conditions, and cancer risk.
- Water consumption: Data centers use enormous volumes of water for cooling,often in regions already facing shortages.
- Property values: The evidence is mixed, but residents near data centers consistently report concerns about resale difficulty and neighborhood desirability.
One academic paper from Frontiers in Public Health concluded that data centers "may pose significant health risks, including diseases associated with air pollution from fossil fuel combustion... and both mental and neurological health concerns related to noise pollution."
Griffin put it more simply: "We can't afford it. I got a lot of old people in our community that can't afford to move."
How the City Got Away With It
By now, you're probably asking the same question I asked: How is this legal?
The short answer is that the original deed restriction wasn't strong enough,and the city knew exactly how to work around it.
The Deed Restriction Shell Game
When the Cromwell family granted the land "to be held in trust for future use as parkland," they didn't include a reverter clause. A reverter clause says, in effect: If you stop using this land for the specified purpose, ownership automatically returns to me or my heirs. Without it, a deed restriction is just a suggestion. A hope. Not a binding legal lock.
After the 1999 donation, the land passed through four different entities. Each transfer made it harder to trace the original restriction. And by the time the city took full ownership, they could argue,with a straight face,that the restriction didn't apply to them because they weren't the original party to the agreement.
"Employment Center Zoning" as a Loophole
The city's second trick was zoning. After the property was rezoned "industrial" in 2005, the Employment Center designation allowed a wide range of commercial uses, including data centers. City officials now say their hands were tied. "This project isn't something that started just last week, last month or last year. Really, you could go back over 30 years to when the property has been zoned for industrial use."
Notice what they don't say: that they're bound by the original deed. They just changed the rules and then claimed they couldn't change them back.
A Story of Race, Class, and Generational Land
This isn't just a land-use story. It's a story about who gets heard and who gets ignored.
The neighborhood in southeast Taylor is predominantly working-class, with a history stretching back to segregation-era housing restrictions. The families there,many of them elderly, many living paycheck to paycheck,have watched their city boom around them. Samsung built a $44 billion chip factory nearby. Tech companies discovered Taylor's cheap land and power infrastructure. And with every new development, the people who built the community get pushed a little further to the margins.
"When the city needed to find a location for this data center, they looked at who was living there and decided it was expendable," said community organizer Carrie D'Anna. "This project will throw many people into poverty because they won't be able to sell their land."
Griffin and her siblings are now paying attorney fees out of the inheritance their parents left them. "We just have to take our money that our parents saved for us for hard times and fight," she told KUT. "We decided to fight for the community, even though it was hard to make that decision."
The Developer and the $1 Billion Bet
So who's building this thing?
Blueprint Projects is a relatively new player in the data center space. Its planned Taylor facility will span 135,000 square feet across 52 acres, with three buildings, an on-site electricity substation, backup generators, and a closed-loop cooling system. Total investment over ten years: $1 billion. The facility will use up to 60 megawatts of power,enough to light tens of thousands of homes.
Tax revenue projections? About $30 million over the next decade, with $20 million earmarked for local schools.
Jobs created? Somewhere between 20 and 30. Not a typo either.
Let that sink in. A $1 billion project, 135,000 square feet of concrete, 60 megawatts of electricity, millions of gallons of water,and it will employ roughly as many people as a small supermarket.
The city sees this as a win: high property tax revenue without a corresponding increase in demand for schools, police, or fire services. But for the families living 500 feet from the site, the math looks very different.
What Other Landowners Must Learn From This
If you're reading this and thinking about donating land,or if you're already in a fight to protect a land gift,please learn from Taylor's story. Here's what went wrong, and how you can do better.
Deed Restrictions Need Teeth, Not Just Words
A simple "for park use only" clause isn't enough. You need:
- A reverter clause: If the property ever stops being used for the designated purpose, ownership reverts to you or your named heirs.
- Specific prohibitions: "No industrial use," "no commercial development," "no data centers, warehouses, or manufacturing facilities." Leave nothing implied.
- A designated enforcer: Name a nonprofit land trust or legal entity with the explicit right to enforce the restriction,and give them funding to do it.
- Record the restriction at the county level: Make sure it's attached to the property's chain of title in a way that can't be "lost" during transfers.
The Cromwell family did some of this,they put the restriction in writing. But without reverter language and ongoing enforcement, the city eventually found ways to work around it.
Trust No Future Council; Plan for the Worst
It's painful to think this way, I know. You want to believe that future leaders will honor your gift. But as Taylor proves, a city council 20 years from now may not share your values. They may see a $10 million check and a $30 million tax stream and convince themselves they're doing the right thing.
If you want your land to remain a park,or a farm, or a nature preserve,bake that outcome into the legal structure, not just the promise. Transfer ownership to a permanent land trust. Create a conservation easement that can't be undone. Work with organizations like the Texas Land Conservancy or the Trust for Public Land.
And if you're already in a fight? Join a group like Griffin's. She and her siblings, along with neighbor Carrie D'Anna, created the "Stop the BPP Data Center" Facebook group to organize neighbors and spread awareness. They built a Christmas float depicting data centers as the "Grinch who stole Taylor" and showed up to every city council meeting they could.
Griffin hired a lawyer, filed a lawsuit to enforce the 1999 deed, traced nearly 30 years of transfers, and is now appealing to Austin's Third Court of Appeals. The trial court dismissed her case, but the fight is far from over.
The Fight Isn't Over
Here's what you need to know right now:
- Lawsuit status: A trial court dismissed Griffin's case, but her legal team is appealing to the Third Court of Appeals in Austin. The case is ongoing as of late 2025.
- Construction status: The city council approved Blueprint's Employment Center Plan in a 5–0 vote. Some site work may proceed, but the legal cloud remains.
- What you can do: If you live in or near Taylor, Texas, find the "Stop the BPP Data Center" Facebook page. Show up at city council meetings. Support Griffin's legal fund if one is established. And if you're a landowner reading this from anywhere else,start planning your own deed protections today. Not tomorrow. Today.
"We don't have a lot of money or a lot of power, so we have to bring our bodies and our voices," D'Anna said. "That's what we need."
Mr. Bland,Frank Rhea Cromwell, if you want his real name,saw a group of kids with nowhere to play and gave them 87 acres. He didn't ask for anything in return. He didn't build a monument to himself. He just deeded the land over for $10 and went back to his tractor.
That kind of generosity is rare. And that's what makes this story so painful. Not just that a data center is going up,that happens everywhere now. But that a city looked at a dying man's final gift and saw a spreadsheet.
Pamela Griffin is still fighting. Her siblings are still fighting. And if you're reading this, maybe you'll fight too,for your own land, your own community, or just your own conviction that some promises deserve to be kept longer than 26 years.
The baseball games are over. The camping trips are a memory. But the story isn't finished yet.