It is a strange thing, the power of a leaf. Not a lion or an eagle, not a sword, not even a star—but a leaf. Red and symmetrical, with clean edges like something folded from paper. And yet, there it is, rippling in the wind above Windsor and every other Canadian outpost: the maple leaf, proud as any coat of arms.
I first saw it up close today at the foot of the Ambassador Bridge, where flags from both nations fly, as if in quiet conversation. The Stars and Stripes always feel a bit like a shout—bold, loud, insistent. But the Canadian flag? It’s a gentle kind of declaration. A calm voice in a noisy room.
The flag is young, at least by flag standards. Born in 1965, the same year the Beatles released Help! and Malcolm X was assassinated. The world was in upheaval, and so, quietly, was Canada. For nearly a century, Canadians had flown a patchwork of British symbols—first the Union Jack, then the Red Ensign, which bore the Union flag in one corner and a jumble of Canadian emblems in the other. It looked more colonial than national, like a coat someone else had picked for you.
Lester B. Pearson, the Prime Minister at the time, believed it was time for a change. A modern nation needed a modern flag. But proposing a new national symbol is like suggesting the family change its last name—deeply personal, immediately political. Parliament debated for months. Veterans protested. Traditionalists clung to the Red Ensign. The flag committee received thousands of designs, most of them terrible. One featured a beaver holding a fleur-de-lis. Another had three red maple leaves between blue borders, a clunky visual compromise that thankfully went nowhere.
In the end, it was George Stanley’s design—a single red maple leaf on a white field, flanked by two red bars—that won. Its power lay in its simplicity. No crowns, no weapons, no references to the past. Just a leaf, taken from nature and stylized for history.
The maple tree itself is deeply Canadian, both practically and poetically. Its wood built cabins and fed fireplaces. Its sap gave sweetness to the long winter. Its leaf, with its eleven points, became a quiet but confident emblem: not of power, but of resilience.
As I stood beneath the flagpole today, the leaf flapping overhead, I thought about what it means to choose a symbol so humble. America chose rebellion. France chose liberty. Canada chose a tree’s offering. There’s something admirable about that. Not passive, but intentional. A flag that doesn’t demand allegiance so much as invite it.
I’ve always liked Canada. The people, the pace, the politeness, yes—but also the posture. The way they move through the world without pretense. The maple leaf feels right for them. A reminder that strength doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it grows. Slowly. Steadily.
And every fall, the whole country burns with color, just to remind you where that leaf came from.