Green Dog Antiques

Green Dog Antiques Combining love for Antiques Dogs and Green Stuff We Restore Refinish Redesign Relove Sell at the YStation Carmine Venue during RoundTop Antique Show.

Dm for info on any item Can ship smalls/local pick up/pick up during Antique Show. Instagram

06/10/2026

It’s almost time for the Cotton Gin Classic Car & Truck Show in Burton, Saturday, June 13. (Rain date June 20). The event starts at 9:00, and awards begin at 2:00.

Photo

06/10/2026

This story broke TODAY — June 8, 2026. From 404 Media. Confirmed by Gizmodo. Covered by Yahoo Finance, TechRadar, and Moneywise within hours.

And it is the single most infuriating, most heartbreaking, most universally outrageous data center story that has ever been published in America.

Because this is not about electric bills. This is not about water shortages. This is not about noise or pollution or tax breaks.

This is about a man who looked at his community — looked at the children playing in fields with nowhere safe to go — and decided to give everything he had so that future generations would have a park.

And a city that took that gift. And sold it for $10 million. To build a data center.

👨‍🌾 THE BLAND FAMILY. TAYLOR, TEXAS. AND THE MOST GENEROUS DEED EVER FILED IN WILLIAMSON COUNTY.

Almost 30 years ago a farming family deeded land to the City of Taylor, Texas, on the condition the city use it for a public park. For the nominal fee of $10, the farmers granted the 87 acres to a public trust in 1999. 

$10. That is what the Bland family accepted for 87 acres of Texas farmland in 1999. Not $87,000. Not $8.7 million. Ten dollars.

Because this was not a sale. It was a gift. A conditional gift — with a legally binding deed requirement that the land be used for one purpose and one purpose only: a public park for the community of Taylor, Texas.

She also remembered him adding: “I’m thinking about giving this land for parkland because these kids need somewhere to play.” 

Kids need somewhere to play. That was the reason. Not a tax deduction. Not a legacy gift to a university. Not a donation to a charity. Just a farmer looking at his community — looking at children with nowhere to go — and deciding that 87 acres of land he owned was more valuable as a park than as anything else.

So he gave it away. For ten dollars. With a legal condition attached. So it could never be taken back.

Or so he thought.

😡 WHAT THE CITY OF TAYLOR DID WITH THAT GIFT — AND THE SENTENCE THAT SHOULD MAKE EVERY AMERICAN’S BLOOD BOIL

Taylor sold it to Blueprint, a data center developer, for $10 million in 2025. Now the land that was supposed to belong to the community will become a 135,000 square foot data center. 

$10 to the family who donated it. $10 million to the city that sold it.

The land changed hands several times — passing through nonprofits and municipal entities — before the City of Taylor eventually acquired it. And then — in 2025 — the Taylor Economic Development Corporation sold it to Blueprint. A data center developer. For $10 million.

And here is the sentence that should stop every American cold:

“Can the City just say no to data centers?” one part of the city’s FAQ reads. “In short, no.” 

No. The city of Taylor’s own website says it cannot stop a data center from being built on land that a farming family donated for a children’s park.

Not “we chose not to stop it.” Not “we decided the economic benefits outweighed the community’s wishes.” Not even “we are sorry this happened.”

Just: in short, no.

👩 MEET PAMELA GRIFFIN — THE WOMAN FIGHTING TO GET THE PARK BACK

Pamela Griffin and her family have owned homes near that land for generations. Griffin and her brothers and sisters played baseball on it, camped out on it, and then watched as their children and their children’s children did the same. 

Baseball games. Camping trips. Generations of children from the same families playing on the same land that a farmer gave to their community before most of them were born.

One of the activists started digging through public records and found the original deed. It was just as Griffin had remembered. On July 7, 1999, Bland’s descendants granted 87.97 acres of land to the “Texas Parks and Recreation Foundation, a Texas non-profit corporation, to be held in trust for future use as parkland by Williamson County, Texas,” according to a copy of the deed reviewed by 404 Media. 

Held in trust. For future use as parkland. Those are the exact words in the legal deed. Written in 1999. Still legally binding in 2026. And still being violated by a city government that sold the land anyway and told its own residents it had no choice.

Griffin went to her family and said they needed to hire a lawyer. “We gotta get this park back for this community that should have been built a long time ago,” she said. Griffin used money from her family to hire a Taylor based lawyer named Chris Osborne. Osborne wasn’t optimistic at first. “He said, ‘Oh Pam, I don’t think you have a case,’” Griffin recalled. 

Her own lawyer told her she didn’t have a case. She hired him anyway. Because sometimes the fight is not about winning. Sometimes the fight is about making sure that the people who betrayed a community’s trust know that somebody noticed. Somebody cared. Somebody refused to let it go quietly.

⚖️ AND THEN SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY HAPPENED

Griffin doesn’t buy this argument. She feels that, regardless of the changing of hands that occurred, the deed is pretty clear about what can be built on that land. “I keep trying to tell everybody,” Griffin explained, “if they start messing with deeds in Texas? Allowing deeds to be not upheld? What’s going to happen to all of us?” 

What’s going to happen to all of us.

That question — from a woman in Taylor, Texas — goes far beyond one data center and one park and one family’s legal battle. It goes to the heart of what makes a deed — what makes a legal promise — what makes a community trust — meaningful.

If a city can accept 87 acres as a gift with a legally binding condition attached — and then sell it 26 years later for $10 million to a developer — what does that say about every deed in every county in Texas? About every donation made in good faith to a public trust? About every conditional gift made by a family that wanted to give something back to their community?

What happens to all of us? That is the question Pamela Griffin is asking. In a Texas courtroom. With her family’s money. Against a data center developer. And a city government that says in short it has no choice.

🏗️ AND THE DATA CENTER GOING UP ON THAT LAND IS ENORMOUS

Blueprint intends to construct a 135,000 square foot data center beside residential neighborhoods, railroad infrastructure, and an existing electrical substation near Griffin’s home. 

135,000 square feet. That is bigger than two football fields. Next to residential neighborhoods where Pamela Griffin’s family has lived for generations. Next to the land where she played baseball as a child. Next to the fields where her children and grandchildren played after her.

Two football fields of concrete and cooling systems and server racks. On land that a farmer gave away for $10 so children would have somewhere to play.

The city’s executive director of community services, Daniel Seguin, told 404 that Blueprint can just use the property for the center without city approval “because the property’s existing Employment Center zoning already allowed such a use.” He also claimed that the center would bring $30 million in tax revenue to the city over the next decade. 

$30 million in tax revenue over a decade. From a data center. On land that generated $10 million when it was sold. On land donated for $10 by a farming family that wanted children to have somewhere to play.

The math is clear. The morality is not.

🌍 AND THIS IS HAPPENING ACROSS AMERICA — RIGHT NOW — ON LAND THAT WAS GIVEN IN TRUST

The story of Taylor, Texas is not unique. It is the pattern.

Land donated for community use. Transferred through nonprofit and municipal entities. Eventually reaching a government body that decides economic development outweighs the conditions attached to the original gift. Sold to a developer. Data center planned.

In Wiscasset, Maine — $240,000 in affordable housing funds were lost because a data center deal fell apart. In Fayetteville, Georgia — 615 acres of forest were paved over. In Colleton County, South Carolina — a data center project rejected by a majority-white county was redirected to a majority-Black county with less political power. In Saline, Michigan — a community vote against a data center was overturned after developers sued. In Taylor, Texas — a deed condition that said “parkland” was overridden by a zoning classification that said “employment center.”

In every case — the community that was supposed to be protected by a legal condition, a democratic vote, or a community agreement — was not protected at all. Because the legal system, the zoning codes, and the economic incentives all pointed in the same direction.

Toward the data center.

Here is what makes the story of Taylor, Texas different from every other data center story that has been told this year:

This is not about a community that did not want a data center. It is about a community that was promised something specific — a park, a place for children to play, a gift from a farming family that loved their neighbors — and had that promise broken. By their own city government. For $10 million.

The Bland family gave 87 acres of Texas farmland for ten dollars. Because kids need somewhere to play. That was the promise. That was the deed. That was the trust.

And the city of Taylor, Texas sold it.

Pamela Griffin is fighting to get it back. With her family’s money. Against a developer with millions. In a Texas court. With a lawyer who initially told her she had no case.

That is who America needs to be right now. Pamela Griffin. In a courtroom. With a deed in her hand. And three words on her lips.

Get it back.

💬 COMMENT below — does this story make you angry? Tell us honestly: if a farming family in YOUR community donated land for a park — and your city sold it for $10 million to a data center developer — what would YOU do?

👍 LIKE this post if you believe that a deed is a promise. And a promise — especially one made by a farming family to their community for $10 — should be honored. No matter how much money someone offers to break it.

🔁 SHARE THIS with every Texan, every farmer, every parent who has ever taken their child to a community park and felt grateful that someone cared enough to create it. Share it with every person who believes that a legal deed should mean something. Share it with everyone who is tired of watching communities get sold out to data center developers while the people who built those communities fight alone.

🔔 FOLLOW this page the stoicway — we are following Pamela Griffin’s legal battle in real time. When the court rules — you will hear it here first. This story is not over.

📌 SOURCES:
404 Media — A Farmer Donated Land to Turn into a Park. The City Is Building a Massive Data Center Instead (June 8, 2026)
Gizmodo — A Farmer Donated Land for a Public Park and the City Sold It to a Data Center Developer for $10 Million (June 8, 2026)
Yahoo Finance / Moneywise — 30 Years Ago, a Texas Family Donated Land for a Public Park. Now It Will Be a Data Center Bigger Than 2 Football Fields (June 8, 2026)
TechRadar — Texas Farmer Donated Land for Children Decades Ago But City Officials Quietly Sold the Land for Massive Data Center Construction (June 8, 2026)
Moneywise — A Texas Family Donated Land for a Public Park — 30 Years Later, the City of Taylor Just Sold It for $10 Million to a Data Center Developer (June 8, 2026)
Joe.My.God — TX Town Sold Donated Park to Data Center for $10M (June 8, 2026)

Great food and the desserts are better than your grandmas! 💜💜💜
06/09/2026

Great food and the desserts are better than your grandmas! 💜💜💜

You guys really have shown love and support! From those who have came by to order, texted or shared our information we thank you! Means so much to know that we are able to provide something different for the community!💜

So cute!
05/30/2026

So cute!

This would be awesome! 🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🖤🩶🤍
05/28/2026

This would be awesome! 🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🖤🩶🤍

Texas really does deserve its own box of crayons, because regular colors simply are not equipped for the emotional experience of living here. 🤠🌵😭
You need: • Whataburger Orange for every late-night drive-thru run • Oil Patch Black for half the trucks parked at Buc-ee’s • West Texas Dust Gray for the layer permanently covering your windshield • and Piney Woods Green for the exact shade of “we’re getting out of the city this weekend.” 💀
Throw in Bluebonnet Blue, H-E-B Red, Rodeo Dirt Brown, and Construction Cone Orange, and suddenly every Texan is coloring with regional pride, weather trauma, and the smell of brisket drifting through a gas station parking lot at midnight. 😂
This isn’t a crayon box.
It’s a Texas survival kit. 🫡
🩶 West Texas Dust Gray The exact color your truck becomes 12 minutes after washing it.
🟧 Texas Sunset Orange Looks fake every evening and somehow still gets posted online daily.
🔴 Lone Star Red The official color of state pride and mildly aggressive bumper stickers.
🟩 Hill Country Green The color of springtime, backroads, and everybody suddenly becoming a wildflower photographer.
⚫ Oil Patch Black Smells faintly like diesel, hard work, and 18-wheelers doing 90 on I-10.
⚪ Alamo White Bright enough to reflect 108° summer heat directly into your soul.
🟨 Yellow Rose Gold A legendary Texas shade powered entirely by country music and state pride. 🌹
🟫 Rodeo Dirt Brown Permanent boot color from Houston to Amarillo.
🟦 Deep in the Heart Blue The exact shade of every Texas sky right before the heat index hits dangerous levels. ☀️
🟧 Whataburger Orange Visible from approximately 14 miles away and somehow always calling your name.
🌫️ Brazos River Fog Gray The terrifying color of driving through rural Texas at sunrise surrounded by deer and zero streetlights.
🟩 Piney Woods Green The official shade of escaping civilization with a cooler, lawn chair, and absolutely no cell service. 🌲
⭐ Bonus Color: Buc-ee’s Beaver Brown The color of financial decisions made inside the snack aisle at 2 AM. 😂

Every nose print is like a human fingerprint! 💚💚💚
05/26/2026

Every nose print is like a human fingerprint! 💚💚💚

I Love Texas

05/26/2026

Come see us this coming weekend. We are in the civic center (big blue top building) space 227-229

Quick history of the King Ranch💚
05/12/2026

Quick history of the King Ranch💚

She was fifty-three years old when her husband died, leaving her one of the largest cattle ranches in the United States—and one of the largest debts in Texas.

Her name was Henrietta Maria Chamberlain King. The property was the legendary King Ranch of South Texas. The debt totaled approximately $500,000 in 1885 currency, the equivalent of about $15 million today. The ranch spanned roughly 614,000 acres of harsh brush country between Corpus Christi and Brownsville.

Henrietta was the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, born on July 21, 1832, in Boonville, Missouri. Her mother passed away when she was only three, and her father, Hiram Chamberlain, raised her alone. They moved from town to town before finally settling in Brownsville, Texas, in 1850. Unable to find a house upon arrival, they lived on a rented houseboat instead.

That houseboat was moored at a spot on the Rio Grande riverbank that an local steamboat captain named Richard King used as his own dock. King came down the bank ready to curse the intruders, but he stopped mid-sentence the moment he saw the minister’s daughter on board.

They married in Brownsville on December 10, 1854. She was twenty-two.

Over the next thirty-one years, they built one of the most significant privately held cattle operations in North America. Captain King—illiterate, hard-drinking, and indomitable—bought parcel after parcel of South Texas land on the advice of Robert E. Lee, who told him to buy land in the "Wild Horse Desert" and never sell it. By 1885, King had built a herd of 40,000 cattle and a fortune that looked like a million dollars on paper.

But then came a diagnosis of stomach cancer. He died at the Menger Hotel in San Antonio on April 14, 1885, at the age of sixty. His final instruction to his lawyer was simple: "Don't let a foot of dear old Santa Gertrudis get away."

Henrietta inherited it all: the land, the legacy, and a secret half-million-dollar debt. At the time, the land was suffering through a decade-long drought. Tragedy had already touched her family; her son, Robert E. Lee King, had died of pneumonia in 1883, and two of her four remaining children would pass away before she did. She had no male heir interested in running the ranch.

She brought in her son-in-law, Robert Justus Kleberg Jr.—the ranch’s young lawyer who married her daughter Alice in 1886—to manage daily operations. However, Henrietta made every major financial decision herself.

For the next forty years, she wore widow’s black every single day.

Within a decade, she paid off the debt. She expanded the ranch from 614,000 acres to over 1.1 million acres by 1925. She drilled artesian wells across the brush country, proving the South Texas desert could be irrigated. She authorized the cattle-dipping vats that broke the South Texas tick fever cycle. She even funded the breeding experiments—crossing Brahman with Shorthorn cattle—that produced the Santa Gertrudis, the first beef cattle breed ever developed in the Western Hemisphere.

She didn't just build a ranch; she built a town. In 1903, she donated 90,000 acres of land to railroad investors to bring a railway across South Texas. In 1904, she platted the town that grew up around the depot and named it Kingsville. She founded the Kleberg Town and Improvement Company, built the high school, and donated land for every major church denomination. She funded what is now Spohn Hospital in Corpus Christi and donated the land for Texas A&M University–Kingsville.

A lifelong teetotaler, she required a clause in every deed she issued in Kingsville forbidding the sale of alcohol. To this day, parts of the area’s history are defined by that resolve. Her humility was just as deep; when Captain King once gave her diamond earrings, she had a jeweler coat them in black enamel to dull their shine.

Henrietta King died on the ranch on March 31, 1925, at the age of ninety-two. At the time of her death, she was one of the wealthiest women in the world.

Her funeral was held that following Saturday at the First Presbyterian Church. As the hearse left for the cemetery, it was followed by two hundred mounted vaqueros—the Mexican-American cowboys of the King Ranch known as Kineños, or "King’s Men." They rode King Ranch Quarter Horses, each marked with the famous "Running W" brand. Some had ridden for two days across the vast estate just to arrive in time. The procession stretched for miles.

At the grave, the two hundred vaqueros formed a single column. Each rider, in turn, walked his horse once around her final resting place with his hat in his hand. When the last rider finished his circle, they remounted and galloped back across the brush country to the ranch.

The ranch now covered 1,173,000 acres. She had inherited it broken and in debt. She was never a rider, but she was the woman who, for forty years, had paid them, fed them, housed them, and kept the ranch alive so they would always have a place to ride.

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Katy, TX

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