It is too bad everybody couldn’t be like Mick Wonnacott.

That was something I thought about when I was lucky enough to have a class with Mick and his sidekick Josh Lovshin during my sophomore year at Butte Central.

No matter how difficult of a day you were having, there was just no way to look at Mick and not smile. The same went for Josh.

Our teacher, Tom Pendergast, labeled them Mickey-Doo and Joshy-Poo, and it just seemed so fitting that neither one argued with it. They just smiled at the monikers.

Mick and Josh were far from straight-A students. They even claimed to be the “dumb guys” in class.

They were far from dumb, however. They didn’t care a whole lot about their grades, but they were unbelievably witty and lightning quick. No matter what was said, Mick and Josh, who were a year behind me in school, had something funny to say.

The duo fed off each other, and you knew they were always there if you needed to bum a chew. Even Mr. Pendergast, a rodeoing ranch kid from Melrose, would borrow a dip from Mick and Josh during class. 

No, Mr. Pendergast, who was a golf coach at BC that school year, was not a what you would call a strict teacher. He was a good teacher of history, but he certainly did not live up to the super-stringent tradition at Butte Central.

Some of the Catholic brothers would be spinning at the thought of such an easy-going teacher. That, though, is why we all loved him.

Everybody should have a teacher like Mr. Pendergast, a guy you could talk to about school, music, hunting or anything else. After giving me a ride home one night, he let me borrow his copy of Garth Brook’s cassette tape “No Fences” so I could record it.

Sometimes Mr. Pendergast would try to be serious and strict. But one look at Mick or Josh would have him busting out laughing. Mr. Pendergast could just could never play the part.

I think the class was called “life skills.” It was one of those classes that nobody took too seriously, no matter the teacher.

The days when we had to go down to the kitchen to cook were the best. It’s been 33 years, so I can’t remember what we cooked. I just remember doing a whole lot of laughing thanks to Mickey-Doo and Joshy-Poo.

I was not a big fan of school in those days. It was hard to trust other students because we were always so damn judgmental and phony.

Mick, though, never judged a soul. He was just nice guys who treated everybody well. He loved to live and laugh too much to try to make anyone else feel bad.

He was a unicorn in that regard.

If you had a chance to spend any time around Mick, then that would end up being a good day.

He wasn’t a superstar athlete or a prom king, and he certainly didn’t give a valedictorian speech at graduation. Mick was just a good guy who always made other people feel welcome.

I first met Mick at my friend Coley Crase’s house in the summer of 1988. I was about to be an eighth grader, and Mick was going into the seventh grade.

He kept talking about the fun he had at “D’Arcy’s wedding.” He was talking about my cousin Jody D’Arcy, whose outdoor wedding to Pana Mitchell on the East Ridge was the party of the summer that year.

When I told Mick that Jody was my cousin, we were instant buddies.

The D’Arcy’s and Wonnacotts were friends. When a D’Arcy ran into a Wonnacott hunting in the Highlands, it was at least an hour of daylight killed by conversation. Both sides had such a great gift for gab.

I never really had much in common with Mick. Sure, I went hunting with my cousins, but my heart was never in it. I never shot an animal. I didn’t camp, and I didn’t chew.

Mick’s conversations were often centered on hunting and camping back then. I couldn’t always relate, but he always had me laughing. Even when his jokes or lines weren’t funny — and they usually were not — he would kill me with his delivery.

Over the last three decades, I didn’t see Mick all that much. He was a labor union leader, and I avoided manual labor like the I thought people would avoid the plague.  

He was sober for 22 years, and I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in more than 16. So, we weren’t bumping into each other in the bars. Instead, we saw each other when our daughters were getting prom pictures or our sons were playing sports.

Whenever I did see Mick, it was a highlight. We would always talk like old friends, and he was still always making me laugh.

The last time I saw him was at the Butte High football team’s senior banquet at the new East Middle School gym last fall. Mick was there for his step-son Torre Temple, who was one of the best defensive backs in the state as a senior last season. I was there because my son played on the junior varsity team.

Mick made a beeline toward me and told me how excited he was that I was running for chief executive of Butte-Silver Bow. He said wanted to get together to talk about how he could help my campaign, and he offered me some advice.

“Run on other people’s money,” Mick said as we made our separate ways. Those were the last words he said to me, then he slapped me on the back as he walked away.

It was like I was talking to 15-year-old Mick again. It was like we were sitting next to each other in Mr. Pendergast’s class. All these years later, and Mick never changed.

It’s really hard to type this, but Mick passed away last week at the shockingly young age of 49. We said goodbye to our old pal at his funeral yesterday, and it just seems so incredibly unfair.

All of the kids who called him dad — when Mick didn’t have to be their dad — were there. So were so many friends and a bunch of Torre’s teammates from football and basketball.

We were all heartbroken.

The title “step-dad” was so fitting for Mick. He stepped up for some boys and girls who really needed a positive male figure in their lives.

I always figured that there has to be a special place in Heaven for good step-parents. Then again, I always figured there was a special place in Heaven for a guy like Mick.

There just has to be.

For 49 years, Mick was there to make us laugh. He warmed our hearts, and he made us smile. He was responsible for a whole lot of smiles, and so many of them came when we needed them the most.

Mick lifted our spirits, even if he probably never even realized that is what he was doing. He was just being Mick, a goofy guy with a heart of gold. 

Yep, the world would definitely be a better place if we had more people like Mick.

— Bill Foley can be reached at foles74@gmail.com. Follow him at twitter.com/Foles74. Listen to him on the ButteCast on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you find your favorite podcasts.