A quiet corner gets a plan

Bryan Cornell raises kids, horses and goats on 17 acres in Joppa. Krissy Flatau lives on a centuries-old horse farm a quarter mile away. In April, a development rumor reached them both.

275 acres of golf course

The preliminary proposal would convert the Mountain Branch Golf Course next to their homes into one of Maryland's largest data center projects. Neither of them had ever fought a development before.

The moment he decided to fight

Cornell's first instinct was to consider moving. Then it flipped into something else entirely.

“I was like, you know what? Screw this. I'm not being forced off my land. We're going to fight back.”

Our Land. Our Home. Our Harford.

They named the movement, met in a Baptist church basement, mobilized thousands on Facebook and put out lawn signs that still line the roads in Joppa.

Maryland's first permanent ban

By June, Harford became the first Maryland county to ban data centers outright. It is still the only county to do it, though tiny Chesapeake Beach followed in late August. Everyone else settled for moratoriums.

What actually scared people

The fear was specific and personal: noise, water and energy use, and industrial scale dropped onto agricultural land. Residents saw it as a threat to what their community is.

“It's so beautiful and peaceful. It's mind-blowing that someone would want to destroy that beauty.”

The other side of the ledger

Kelly Schulz of the Maryland Tech Council calls the ban a lost generational opportunity for jobs and tax revenue, arguing the county could have zoned for better locations instead of refusing all of them.

“Because there was a project that nobody liked in their community, they just said, 'No, we're not having data centers at all.'”

What the developer promised

Seven buildings, 672 megawatts, power generated on-site instead of from the grid, limited public water use, capped nighttime noise, and five acres of farmland preserved per acre developed.

“We did not take a standard data center blueprint and try to force it onto Joppa.”

Unlikely organizers

Cornell, 50, works as a superintendent for a large developer and says he does not oppose data centers, just ones dropped on communities that don't want them. Flatau, 56, works in a school library.

A daughter who avoided politics

Flatau's mother, Eileen Rehrmann, was county executive and ran for governor. Years of watching that spotlight left Flatau wanting nothing to do with public life.

“You cannot take advantage of communities and people, and you can't go in and ruin their quality of life. People's homes are their sanctuary.”

The hum that went viral

Cornell hosted dozens of neighbors in his horse barn overlooking the 14th hole. Flatau toured a neighborhood beside a Virginia data center and posted videos of the constant hum. The clips spread fast.

From never to every week

Cornell had never attended a county council meeting. Flatau hadn't been in years. They became regulars, with hundreds of residents filling the chambers behind them.

“I've never seen a community come together on a topic like this.”

A pause becomes a ban

The council first floated a 180-day moratorium to study the industry. County Executive Bob Cassilly, facing a primary challenge, pushed legislation for an outright ban instead.

The power math

Cassilly had sent officials to study Northern Virginia's data center hub in April 2025. Maryland imports much of its electricity and targets 100% clean energy by 2035.

“A moratorium is a waste of time because in the end, we don't have the power anyway. So let's just skip that step and do the ban.”

The fight isn't over

The ban passed unanimously and Cassilly won his primary two weeks later. Now come the lawsuits, a possible state override, and January's legislative session. Cornell and Flatau are organizing for it.

“We are the 'data center people' now, and it's not going to stop.”