Leap years have caused chaos, prompted proposals throughout history
April, June and November.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Except for February ...
What's that about?
It's about time, naturally, and, just as your algebra teacher always threatened, it's about math.
Happy Feb. 29, everybody. Leap year — and with it the legends, lore and girl-to-boy marriage proposals — is back in town.
Not that it's been gone that long. Leap years occur every four years, except (here's where it gets tricky) for years divisible by 100, unless that year is also divisible by 400. How did humans come up with such a crazy timekeeping system?
Same way we came up with everything else — from sex to presidential elections to a really good piecrust — trial and error.
As the world turns
According to legend, Romulus was responsible for the first Roman calendar, a sparse affair with only 10 months and a total of 304 days (what do you expect from a guy who was raised by wolves?). Back then (about 750 B.C.), the year began in March and ended in December with a 61-day black hole in between; early Romans, in their wisdom, simply ignored winter.
Trouble was, there was no consistency from year to year. So the Romans began to experiment, trying to come up with a working calendar that would accurately reflect the solar year. They added two new months, Januarius and Februarius, around 700 B.C., bringing the year to a total of 355 days.
Starting in 153 B.C., they began arbitrarily throwing in an extra month called Mercedonius (some say for no better reason than to extend a politician's term of office). By 46 B.C., their calendar and the Earth's seasons were totally out of whack.
"Things were a mess," said Woody Sullivan, professor of astronomy at the University of Washington. "There was huge confusion in terms of the length of the year, the lengths of the months. In fact, they called it the year of confusion."
Hail, Caesar!
On the advice of his girlfriend Cleopatra's astronomer (according to some, anyway), Julius Caesar cut through the chaos and developed a snazzy new calendar that featured 12 months and 365 ¼ days. He also fixed Jan. 1 as the first day of the year, set all months save February at either 30 or 31 days, and established leap years to deal with that pesky quarter of a day, creating the most accurate calendar in the empire — and getting a month named after himself in the process.
Unfortunately, Caesar's Julian calendar ran a bit slow — about a hundredth of a day, to be exact — which after 130 years or so, meant it was a whole day off.
"A hundredth of a day doesn't amount to a hill of beans, but if you want your calendar in sync with the seasons, you have to worry about it," said Sullivan. "More seriously, if you want your religious holidays in sync with the seasons — if you want Easter to be associated with rebirth and springtime — then you really need to worry about it."
By 1582, Pope Gregory XIII was plenty worried. So he jettisoned 10 days ("When you're a pope in the 16th century, you can do that sort of thing," said Sullivan), immediately correcting the discrepancy and annoying everybody with a birthday between Oct. 5 and Oct. 14. He then added in the century-years-must-be-divisible-by-400 rule and — voilà! — the Gregorian calendar, the system we use today, was born.
Although accurate, the pope's new calendar was not an immediate hit; in fact, its introduction into protestant England in 1752 led to riots, murder and general mayhem. Eventually, though, the Gregorian calendar became the norm in most countries.
Leap year, in the meantime, had started some odd traditions.
I have a proposal for you ...
"It is statut and ordaint that ... for ilk yeare knowne as lepe yeare, ilk mayden ladye ... shall hae liberte to bespeke ye man she likes, albeit he refuses to taik hir to be his lawful wyfe, he shall be mulcted in ye sum ane pundis or less ... except and awis gif he can make it appeare that he is betrothit ane ither woman he then shall be free."
The year was 1228, and Scottish law had just ordained that in a leap year, any unmarried woman could propose to any man she darn well pleased. If he refused her without good cause (such as "ane ither woman" hanging about), he had to pay her a pound, and, according to some reports, pony up a kiss and a new silk gown
Where did all of this get started?
In fifth-century Ireland, legend has it, St. Brigid complained to St. Patrick that women had to wait too long for their men to propose marriage. Wasn't there something he could do to even the odds? St. Patrick, a bachelor at heart, granted St. Brigid her request, but with one small catch: Women could propose to men, but only during leap years (perhaps feeling remorseful, he threw in the silk dress thing).
Eventually, the custom spread to Scotland, France, Italy and England, where in 1840, it prompted none other than Charles Dickens to publish "an urgent remonstrance" to the bachelors of his country regarding "the horrors and dangers with which the said Bissextile, or Leap Year, threatens the gentlemen of England on every occasion of its periodical return."
But no one seemed to mind. By the early 20th century, lavish Leap Year balls were all the rage in the U.S. and leap-year cards bearing coy proposals cluttered mailboxes across the nation. Many featured some variation on the "crazed spinster seeks husband" theme. Others were more demure:
"In Leap Year, it's the thing for girls
Their preferences to state
And so I guess that I propose
That we should make a date."
These days, proposals come from all sides, including television audiences. Straight guys look to gay men for tips on popping the question. The crazed spinster has transmogrified into the satisfied QuirkyAlone.
So how does St. Patrick's quaint proclamation fit into today's world?
It doesn't really, says Lori Leibovich, founder and editor of Indiebride.com, an online journal for independent-minded brides.
"In many cases, the power is equally distributed," said Leibovich. "People have practical discussions regarding marriage: 'Are we ready? Yes, we're ready.' The idea comes up mutually."
Leibovich said the traditional proposal, in which a man gets down on one knee, proffers a bouquet of flowers and a ring, and "pops the question," seems to be happening less and less. Now, proposing marriage is anybody's game — men propose, women propose, or both parties propose at once.
"When my husband proposed to me, I proposed right back," she said.
The Froggy factor
Leap-year marriages may be a thing of the past, but there's still that other little matter to contend with, at least for a lucky few, Leibovich included.
"I'm expecting a baby," she said. "In fact, he's due Feb. 29."
Is she excited about giving birth to the rare leap-year child, even though it means that, like Froggy on the old "Our Gang" comedies, he'll get only one birthday out of four?
She's not exactly jumping for joy.
"I really hope I don't," she said. "I remember there was always that one kid in class whose birthday was on leap day. I always felt bad for them. You had to make up a birthday for them almost every year."
Diane Mapes: dimapes@nwlink.com