Leap
years have caused chaos, prompted proposals throughout history
By
Diane Mapes
Special to The Seattle Times
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 SUSAN
JOUFLAS / THE SEATTLE TIMES |
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Thirty days hath September,
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."
