You know the Vulcans — but what about the Vulcanettes?

Vulcanettes Marlys Aukee, left, and Kelly McDonough, right, put some red smudges on the face of Pat Warner at Sweeney’s Bar in St. Paul on Jan. 25, 1991. “It gives the Vulcans some competition. They’re not the only ones who can do that (smudge) to the opposite sex,” said Warner. (Pioneer Press: Richard Marshall)

By MOLLY GUTHREY | mguthrey@pioneerpress.com | Pioneer Press

The year was 1991. The city was St. Paul. The place was Sweeney’s. The time was Winter Carnival.

“It was myself and some friends at the bar,” said Leo Gadbois, who at the time was the proprietor of both Sweeney’s Saloon & Cafe and Cognac McCarthy’s, two popular Dale Street taverns.

Jill Fiebiger of St. Paul, a former Vulcanette, has kept some of the memoribilia from that unauthorized 1990s spin-off of the St. Paul Winter Carnival's Vulcans.? (Pioneer Press: Molly Guthrey) — Jill Fiebiger of St. Paul, a former Vulcanette, has kept some of the memoribilia from that unauthorized 1990s spin-off of the St. Paul Winter Carnival’s Vulcans.? (Pioneer Press: Molly Guthrey)

“Leo was pretty creative about promoting his business,” said Shelly Cylkowski, a waitress at Sweeney’s. “He got the idea: ‘Let’s do the Vulcanettes.’ ”

If you’re familiar with the St. Paul Winter Carnival, then you know the Vulcans: Vulcanus Rex, the Fire King, and his rowdy krewe of Vulcans represent the rawness of early spring as they battle the cold and icy forces of winter as symbolized by King Boreas and Aurora, Queen of the Snows, and their regal entourage.

That first year of the Vulcanettes, Sweeney’s enlisted 16 women who agreed to don the capes and enjoy the frosty festivities.

“We just wanted to be in the parade and have fun,” Cylkowski said of the Vulcanettes.

This lark, though, turned into a rather contentious time in St. Paul Winter Carnival history.

VULCANS: A PRIMER

To understand the Vulcanettes, you have to understand the Vulcans. To understand the Vulcans, you have to understand the St. Paul Winter Carnival.

Here’s the back story: In 1885, a New York Times reporter described St. Paul as “another Siberia, unfit for human habitation.” Minnesotans responded by founding the St. Paul Winter Carnival the next year. The Carnival has a “legend” associated with it. It’s a myth, a fairy tale, a battle between the end of winter and the beginning of spring. For the 10 days of Winter Carnival, the Vulcans can be spotted around the city, hanging off their 1932 fire engine, “Luverne,” and dressed in their oddball costumes of red jumpsuits, capes and masks.

The type of rowdiness the Vulcans and others in the Winter Carnival partake in has changed through the years, as noted by one local historian:

“The Winter Carnival was for many years something of an oversized boys’ club whose members (mainly local businessmen) got a chance to cut loose and have a little naughty fun,” wrote author Larry Millett, former Pioneer Press reporter and editor, in his book “Strange Days, Dangerous Nights: Photos from the Speed Graphic Era” (Borealis Books, 2004).

“This was especially true of the Vulcans, masked marauders who’ve always had the best part — they’re the villains — in the carnival’s well-crafted fantasy,” Millett wrote. “The Vulcans still cut a smudge-strewn swathe through St. Paul during the carnival, but they’ve toned down since the freewheeling days of yore. Unburdened by any notion of women’s rights, the Vulcans for many years did their best to plant a kiss on virtually any female within reach, an activity that, according to one Dispatch article, earned them many a slap.”

The krewe’s troubles culminated in 2005, when the reigning Vulcan King pleaded guilty to inappropriately touching three female bartenders while placing garters on them during a Vulcan ritual at Alary’s Bar in downtown St. Paul.

The incident prompted a review by the St. Paul Festival and Heritage Foundation, which produces the Winter Carnival, to bring Vulcan traditions in line “with contemporary community standards.” It’s been a successful evolution: The modern Vulcan still crashes the party, but he is no longer associated with garter ceremonies; he has curbed his public drinking; he’s a more respectful, family-friendly kind of guy who does a lot of charity work. Gone are the days when unsuspecting women would get kissed or smudged by Vulcans on the street.

THELMA & LOUISE — AND THE VULCANETTES

With this backdrop, let us return to 1991.

It was the year of Operation Desert Storm, when U.S. women soldiers served as part of the coalition that liberated Kuwait from the Iraqi invasion. In pop culture, “Thelma & Louise” embarked on their epic road trip across movie screens, leaving their lives of obligation behind and talking about empowerment with quotes such as: “Where do you get off behaving that way with women you don’t even know, huh? How’d you feel if someone did that to your mother or your sister or your wife?” It was also the year of the inaugural 1991 FIFA Women’s World Cup in Guangdong, China, the first-ever world championship for women’s national association soccer teams.

And in St. Paul, a group of women were doing their part to empower themselves: They were the Vulcanettes.

“We wore black pants and white tuxedo shirts with red satin bow ties and red satin cummerbunds and red satin baseball jackets with our names on them,” Cylkowski said. “We had red satin capes and red satin eye patches.”

Just like the Vulcans — but different, too.

“We were a bunch of clean-cut women,” said Jill Fiebiger, another Vulcanette.

“We didn’t kiss anybody,” Cylkowski said. “We would paint hearts on our cheeks, and then ask if we could press our cheeks against someone. We always asked permission.”

The Vulcanettes were a hit with the public: A Pioneer Press (unscientific) poll reported that by a 2-1 margin, callers to Cityline — an automated telephone information service — said the group should be part of the 10-day Carnival. The Vulcanettes didn’t need a poll to know this.

“We were applauded when we went places,” Fiebiger said.

“Kids loved us,” Cylkowski said.

The Vulcans, however …

“I was around then,” said Steve Robertson, the current president of the Imperial Order of Fire and Brimstone, the nonprofit that represents the St. Paul Vulcan Krewe. “It wasn’t sanctioned by the St. Paul Winter Carnival. It was the bar owner who wanted to promote his bar. It was his intention to promote his business — and that’s not what the Winter Carnival is about. It’s about promoting the legend and the history of St. Paul.”

Even Pioneer Press columnist Joe Soucheray chimed in on the matter.

“Running loose, chasing women and smooching them on the cheek with black grease is a man’s job,” Soucheray wrote.

Gadbois saw it differently.

“The ladies were really well-received and a whole lot more fun than drunk, grizzly old men,” he said.

CARNIVAL VS. VULCANETTES

The tension between the Vulcans and the Vulcanettes came to a head when the red-caped women crashed the Grande Day Parade on Jan. 26, 1991.

Nick Coleman, then a columnist with the Pioneer Press, wrote about that day: “I was accosted by a Vulcanette on Fifth Street during the Grande Day Parade,” he wrote. “A strange blonde in a red mask, she suddenly clasped her arms around me and pressed her cheek vigorously against mine, leaving a large red smudge from the greasepaint heart on her face.

“I will acknowledge that there was a bad part to my first encounter with a Vulcanette: I had to chase her for almost a block to get her to do it again.”

The parade was on Saturday. That Monday, the St. Paul Winter Carnival Association took Gadbois and his Vulcanettes to court.

“It was a situation like the three Billy Goats Gruff and the troll,” Gadbois said. “We were the goats and the Carnival was the troll — not one bit happy about us trying to cross over. They sued me to cease and desist.”

In the complaint, filed in Ramsey County District Court, the St. Paul Winter Carnival Association stated that the Vulcanettes had no connection with the Carnival and that their activities “constitute misrepresentation and infringement on the property rights of the carnival.” Carnival officials sought a court order to prevent the women from using the name Vulcanettes or appearing in public while wearing costumes similar to those of the Vulcans.

This is when then-St. Paul Mayor Jim Scheibel got involved. Scheibel quickly brokered a settlement between the two parties: The Vulcanettes were not to show up at official Carnival events. In return, the Winter Carnival dropped the lawsuit.

“I forgot that history until you brought it up,” said Scheibel when we reached him as he was about to teach a class at Hamline University. “I do remember it now. The Vulcans are a very big part of Carnival. They’re fun and ultimately the women wanted to be a part of that fun. Believe it or not, some people want to be Vulcans when they grow up. Why can’t little girls as well as little boys?”

LADY VULCAN

Putting aside the Vulcanettes for a moment, we wondered: Can women serve as Vulcans?

“It’s a fraternal organization,” Robertson says. “That speaks volumes right there.”

An all-male organization?

“Except for me,” said Kitty Ryan of Stillwater, “when I was 14. I’m 78 now. I twirled a fire baton, all week in Carnival. I am officially listed as ‘Kitty Ryan, the mascot of the 1952 Krewe.’ I’ve been told I’m the only official Lady Vulcan.”

This hormonal blip in history came about through Ryan’s dance teacher, who had connections with the Vulcans and recommended they add Ryan to the krewe to add some fire — literally.

It was quite the experience for a country girl to go to the city to star in the Winter Carnival.

“I was a farm girl from southern Minnesota,” she said. “My parents were ecstatic, but they couldn’t come along — cows don’t milk themselves. I can’t believe I was 14 years old and alone in a hotel room.”

But she wasn’t really alone during her service — after riding in the Vulcan truck and working with fire and making various appearances during the day, Ryan was delivered safely to her room each night.

“It was like having seven dads,” she said of the Vulcans.

She wore the red cape, but she does not think it’s appropriate for other women to do so: She did not then nor does she now approve of the Vulcanettes.

“What I did was fine; I was a child,” Ryan said. “I don’t think women should be running around like the men do at all. I’m pretty old-fashioned.”

THE VULCANETTES

So what was the life of a Vulcanette like?

“We would get dressed up and then we’d go on a bus ride from bar to bar,” Fiebiger said. “We’d blow our whistles and ask to smudge people. We’d leave heart marks on their cheeks. “

It wasn’t just bars.

“We did some private parties,” Fiebiger said. “We went to day cares. We passed out a lot of candy. We were in parades — except for the Winter Carnival parades. Everyone else was very welcoming to us. We were in the Grand Old Day parade.”

The Vulcanettes didn’t necessarily mind being unauthorized.

“Being a rebel was part of the fun,” Fiebiger said. “Especially when you’re running around in capes and masks. There was a sense of mystery to us.”

“The first two or three years we had a great time,” Gadbois said. “It was taxing and expensive, but I was willing to handle it.”

The Vulcanettes even had an official mission: “… to support (through participation) various community events in and around St. Paul and to be involved in fundraising efforts for charities that the group chooses to support. And, of course, the Vulcanettes spread much needed cheer and laughter in the community.”

Eventually though, the Vulcanettes lost their fire, especially when the original members moved on.

“It fell apart,” Fiebiger said. “At the end, the Vulcanettes were in mismatching outfits. It was embarrassing.”

No hard feelings, though: The Vulcanettes — whose reign ended in approximately 2002 — had a reunion a couple of years ago. It’s fun for the women to reminisce about this lost chapter in St. Paul history — especially at this time of year.

“Every time the Carnival comes around,” Cylkowski said. “I remember the Vulcanettes. We were a pretty big deal back then.”