Eight Sundays: Reclaiming Community, One Orange Towel at a Time

Why we’re turning our house into a community center—starting with eight Sundays.

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 on the railing of our grandparents' deck, we knew exactly what it meant: they were ready for us. Breakfast was on. The house was open. It was a small gesture—but one that’s seared into my childhood. A quiet ritual that said: you’re welcome now.

(There was also another, earlier morning ritual where my grandmother went for a morning walk, then took a dip in the lake with my grandfather—literally the same thing, every day. But I only woke up in time for that part, like, twice.)

As I prepared for another summer at the cottage with my toddler son, I kept wondering, were those summers really as good as I remember? So, I asked my dad to dig up some old photos—just to see. I figure that in building Oomira, I’ve been deep-diving into my own archives anyway. The photos he sent looked like they were ripped from a 1970s cottagecore magazine. Turns out, they weren’t as good as I remembered. They were better.

But here’s the thing: in Muskoka today—and honestly, in a lot of places—there just isn’t anywhere that recreates that feeling. That sense of ease and belonging. The familiar faces, the casual drop-ins, the yearly rituals that thread summers together. Sure, you can find activities—there are lessons and programs, and if you dig hard enough or know the right people, you might get into a club or community center. I’ve tried. For years. But most of them are referral-only, tucked behind paywalls and gatekeeping, and even if you do get in, they often don’t offer what I’m looking for. Because this isn’t really a Muskoka problem. It’s an everywhere problem. We’ve made connection exclusive. Community complicated. And something about that just doesn’t sit right with me anymore.

Over the last couple year, an idea started to take root, what if I started a community center at the lake? During that same time as I wrestled with an intense desire to relive my childhood, my husband Zak was having deep (like, deep) thoughts about the state of connection in the world and what it means for our son to grow up.

The friendships, the rituals, the food, the multigenerational overlaps that used to come from churches or family compounds are becoming relics. Too many conversations with friends have ended with phrases like “we don’t really have a community,” or “there’s no modern version of church,” or simply, “we don’t know our neighbors.” Remote work and the fragmentation of family life have left so many of us. And we’re craving something from the past, but not outdated. We want connection—but with less friction, and less pretense.

At first, I thought that solving this problem for myself and others would mean building a literal community center. A building. Staff. Full-summer programming. Something polished and permanent. But that felt expensive, daunting, and too big a commitment for something I couldn’t even fully name yet. Then life—quietly and wisely—reminded me that constraint can actually be a gift. So I started asking smaller questions. Could we do this without buying property? Could we rent something? Turns out, not much is available. Could we book out a camp or a hotel for the summer? Probably too pricey, and too sterile. What about renting a camp one day a week? That just seemed logistically painful, with too much setup and teardown—it would lose the magic and probably end up feeling kind of sad.

Then it hit me we already throw a massive Canada Day party, why couldn’t we host a community day too? That idea sent me down a rabbit hole of staffing, programming, and permits. But very quickly it became clear—this was actually possible. And maybe even kind of epic. Around the same time, I started reading Unreasonable Hospitality (highly recommend), and I couldn’t stop thinking: what if we took those principles and applied them to creating community?

So this summer, Zak and I are opening our actual, literal house in Muskoka to host what we’re calling Sunday House. Eight intentional Sundays, from July 6 to August 24. It’s not a camp. It’s not a school. It’s something better—and something rare. It’s what happens when you stop trying so hard to “build community” and instead create space for it to find you. Our boathouse becomes the clubhouse. Our dock becomes your dock. We bring in staff one day a week and make it work—not just work, but work magic.

Because community has to start somewhere. And if we all wait for the perfect venue, the perfect funding, the perfect “someday,” we’ll miss the whole damn thing.

At Sunday House my goal is simple, create a new Sunday ritual. The kind of memories that live rent-free forever.

Every Sunday begins 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 espresso machine is waiting. The day has begun. It’s our secret signal—part flag, part welcome mat, part old camp tradition.

(We also had a neighbour growing up who started each morning with a literal cannon shot into the lake. But maybe we’ll save that for next year.)

Then we flow into a morning of swimming and paddle sessions, broken down by age (and yes, there’s a session for adults too). Maybe there’s impromptu yoga on the dock. From there Maybe it’s just sunbathing, lawn games, board games, kids cannonballing off the end of the dock while parents sip something cold and swap life updates under the trees.

Then comes the communal lunch. It’s not just a meal—it’s a ritual in itself. Zak is pouring his heart into it. He’s dreamed of creating this kind of space for our son. A table where people linger, food is passed around like stories, and kids grow up remembering the smell of cedar smoke and cast-iron corn. He’s already sketching menus—think big bowls of blistered vegetables, grilled meats, crusty bread torn with your hands, cold wine, cold lemonade, and something chocolate at the end just because. It’s his way of building memory, one plate at a time. And it’s our way of saying; you belong here, come sit down.

And my personal favorite ritual? On the fifth Sunday, we’ll bring back one of my favorite traditions from childhood; the Regatta. Swimming races in the morning, paddle races in the afternoon, and all the food, friends, and sun-soaked chaos you can handle in between. Winners earn real Sunday House pennants. And at night, we clean up, come back, and dance—the kind of dance where the kids fully take over and the grownups just try to keep up.

I don’t know what this becomes. I don’t know what it would look like outside the context of a cottage community. Maybe next summer it is a real community center. Maybe this fall we try something in Toronto. Maybe it stays small and sacred. Maybe it lives in our memories as eight perfect Sundays.

But for now? I don’t need to know where it goes. All I know is that it’s needed—and I can be the one to do it.

The towel goes up July 6th. Check it out at orangetowel.com. You’re welcome here.

And if this resonates, pass it along.