slow sundays
lake muskoka
we Wanted a Place Where Summer Felt Like the summers we remembered. Just a rhythm, a table, a towel by the lake.
When I think back to my childhood, it looked like kids on docks, wet towels in tangled piles, neighbors who knew your name, just enough structure to feel safe, and just enough freedom to feel wild.
But somewhere along the way, that kind of community stopped being easy to find. It doesn’t really seem to exist anymore. Just full calendars and nowhere we actually want to be. A hundred Slack channels. No one to share a meal WITH.
Sunday House is When we open our doors and just create the space for community to find us.
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WHEN THE ORANGE TOWEL IS OUT, magic begins.
Every morning at the cottage when I was growing up, my cousins and I would crouch in the bushes, watching the balcony. We were waiting for one thing: the orange towel. When it appeared, we knew what it meant. My grandparents were ready for us. Breakfast was on. It’s a small gesture — but it’s seared into my childhood. A quiet ritual that said: you’re welcome now.
When we’re hosting, we like to start things the same way. There’s no bell. No loudspeaker. No formal announcement. Just one orange towel, hung to dry on the railing. That’s how you’ll know: the house is open, the coffee is hot, and the day has begun. It’s our secret signal — part flag, part welcome mat, part old camp tradition. The orange towel means: come in. Take your shoes off. Jump in the lake. Stay awhile. Kids know it. Neighbours watch for it. New friends learn fast.