A gay farmer’s lavender farm in the Shenandoah Valley
At dawn in June, the lights at Rowan Hearth Farm come on before the sun clears the Blue Ridge. Eli Mercer, 42, walks four acres of lavender with pruning shears and coffee, checking wet stems and the first bees. He owns the farm with his husband, Daniel, a carpenter who builds crates and shade structures. Around them are orchards, horse country and mountain views; the farm adds purple rows, herb beds, beehives and a shop of soap, honey and dried bundles.
Eli is a gay farmer who runs a lavender farm in the Shenandoah Valley, and his days combine careful tending with the need to earn a living. In high season, visitors arrive for cut flowers, cooking lavender and the drying barn’s scent. The work is physical and financially uncertain, yet the farm has become a place where his sexuality, marriage and commitment to rural life are visible rather than hidden. His story shows what that visibility costs and makes possible.
A life measured by seasons
Lavender is a patient crop. Eli plants it in spring, weeds it by hand, and waits through hot summers for the harvest window when each stem carries its strongest scent. He cuts bunches at dawn, dries them in a shaded barn, and returns to the rows every few hours. The routine can look like stillness; beneath it are constant decisions about heat, water, pests and labor.
His first beds were a trial on land his family used for grazing. After working in restaurant kitchens and regional horticulture, Eli bought the farm in 2017. Daniel joined with carpentry skills, while Eli learned the business through farmers’ markets, florists and changing tourist seasons. The valley’s quiet reputation became useful: travelers stop for the view, then stay for the farm.
Eli keeps one eye on the weather and one on Virginia’s wider LGBTQ community. The story of Richmond’s Stonewall history shows why networks beyond a rural road matter: a local sports league can become a meeting place, a memory bank and a way to share resources. Eli attends occasional events and knows statewide visibility gives farm visitors a clearer picture of Virginia’s diverse communities.
Turning flowers into a working business
Turning flowers into money requires several channels. Eli sells fresh stems to florists, dries bundles for the shop, makes soap and culinary seasoning, and offers wreath-making workshops. Direct sales are most profitable, but wholesale accounts and weekend markets steady the year. He plans the harvest carefully: too many plants in bloom overwhelm the shop; too few and a restaurant loses its order.
Last summer, a crew worked with Alcom Film on a short portrait of the harvest. The piece followed Eli from cutting rows to a market stall, showing the labor behind a polished jar. Eli welcomed the attention because he wants lavender understood as agriculture, not a decorative backdrop. The video also brought new visitors, who arrive asking about the bees, the soil and the people who tend both.
Visibility, family and the valley
Eli is comfortable with the contrast between his public role and a farm’s need for privacy. He is openly gay, married to Daniel and active in LGBTQ networks, but he does not turn every harvest conversation into a political statement. Customers meet a farmer answering questions about lavender, family and weather. The visibility that matters is ordinary: his wedding photograph in the office, his partner loading a truck, his name on the farm sign.
Regional stories give rural life wider context. UniteVA stories follow LGBTQ events, cultural figures and community businesses across Virginia, showing how state identity takes shape in cities, small towns and online spaces. Eli reads them between orders and shares them with farmhands and visitors. The connection matters because a farm can feel isolated geographically while remaining social through networks of growers, artists, organizers and customers.
A comparison with Australian lavender farms
For Australian readers, Rowan Hearth offers a familiar market lens. Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane have regular farmers’ markets where shoppers buy small-batch honey, olive oil, handmade soap and seasonal flowers. Carrying a reusable container, asking when produce was picked and taking home a jar rather than a wrapped gift are ordinary weekend habits. The scale and rhythm differ, but trust between a product, place and person is recognisable.
Australian lavender farms in Tasmania, the Victorian highlands and parts of New South Wales sell locally grown botanicals, culinary sprays, dried buds and clean beauty products. Their busiest season generally arrives with spring and summer, while Virginia’s harvest peaks in June and July. Growers plan around school holidays, festivals and tourism weekends, giving the farm calendar a different rhythm from Shenandoah’s summer road trips. The practical contrasts are easy to place side by side:
| Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley | Australian lavender regions |
|---|---|
| Main harvest in June and July | Main harvest from spring into early summer, depending on the region |
| Lavender, bees, herbs and cut flowers on a family-scale farm | Family farms in Tasmania, the Victorian highlands and New South Wales |
| A farm shop, florists and regional visitors shape demand | Farmers’ markets in Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane sell jars, fresh stems and skincare |
| Summer road trips and flower fairs are important sales periods | Summer holidays, festivals and tourism weekends drive many farm visits |
| State and federal rules cover food, labour and consumer claims | State and territory rules cover food and workplace standards, with national labelling rules |
The legal setting is different, yet connected to a queer farmer’s daily life. Victoria’s Equality Act 2010 protects against discrimination on grounds including sexual orientation, gender identity, sex characteristics and intersex status in employment and services; other states and territories maintain their own frameworks. Australian farms also follow state food-safety, chemical-use and packaging requirements, while national competition rules govern claims such as “Australian made” on labels.
Place, season and regulation shape the same product differently. In Virginia, lavender sells as a memory of a mountain drive; in Australia, it may be a year-round bathroom ingredient or a gift from a weekend market. Eli succeeds by telling that story honestly, one batch at a time.
Community is part of the crop
Eli’s farm is a community project, though he resists turning hospitality into a performance. He hosts a lavender weekend with local makers, employs neighbours and keeps a bunkhouse for seasonal workers. His concern for stable housing has broader context: a New York account of Crossroads housing pathways follows a guest moving from homelessness into permanent accommodation through practical supports. Eli sees the same principle locally, where a safe bed, steady work and a welcoming network can give someone room to rebuild.
That philosophy appears in small decisions. Eli donates herbs and honey to a food pantry, helps visitors find transport and gives surplus seedlings to school gardens. At the annual lavender gathering, part of the stall fees supports a local housing nonprofit. He also welcomes LGBTQ couples experiencing rural Virginia without making them symbols. The farm’s welcome is strongest when it treats people as neighbours, customers and participants.
What the harvest leaves behind
Looking ahead, Eli is preparing for hotter summers and irregular rain. He is adding native hedgerows, improving drainage and planting successive lavender varieties so the farm depends less on one bloom window. He and Daniel also plan to train a younger manager and document recipes, soil records and supplier relationships. A community publication can feel remote from a working farm, yet the About UniteVA page explains why local reporting and partnerships matter: they keep connections visible among people who live, work and gather in Virginia.
At dusk, harvested rows look silver rather than purple. Eli walks the empty paths with Daniel, checking tomorrow’s cut list before the bees settle. The farm has not solved isolation, high costs or narrow seasons. It has created a place where a gay life can be visible, useful and rooted. That is the memory to carry from Shenandoah: a rural enterprise can be personal without becoming private, and a community can change when someone tends both plants and relationships.