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We need more people like Mick

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.
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Podcast No. 163: Brian James Leech

When I read the book “The City That Ate Itself: Butte, Montana and Its Expanding Berkeley Pit” by Brian James Leech, I was blown away.
For one thing, I could not believe that a guy who grew up in Bozeman could so eloquently capture the heart and soul of the Mining City. He saw through the stigma that is attached to Butte to look into the eyes of the people.
Not only was he fascinated by this place, he set out for a decade-long project to explain it. Nothing can tell the story of post-World War II Butte like the story of the Berkeley Pit.
When the Anaconda Co. moved away from underground to open pit mining, it pitted Butte against itself. We needed mining to survive, but mining needed our neighborhoods.
The Berkeley Pit swallowed up the neighborhoods of Meaderville, McQueen and East Butte. Mining also relocated all the residents of the Dublin Gulch.
For years, I just assumed that the people of Butte gave into this out loyalty to the company and the good of the mining industry. That certainly was not the case.
I watched the 2023 documentary “Resurrecting Holy Savior” last spring, and that movie documents some of the fight that people put up to try to save their neighborhoods. In the fall, my good friend Michele Shea forcefully recommended that I read “The City That Ate Itself” because, as she said, it is required reading for anyone running for office in Butte.
I couldn’t put the book down. I read it in a matter of a few days, and it was eye opening.
For one thing, I want to go back in time to meet former Walkerville Mayor Jimmy Shea. The town of Walkerville should place a statue of Mayor Shea on top of the old Alice Mine Dump, which is now a beautiful site that overlooks the mining city. Without Mayor Shea, who I don’t believe is a relative of Michele, Walkerville as we know it, would not exist. He fought the vaunted Anaconda Co. and won. You cannot say that about many other people throughout history.
“The City That Ate Itself” should be required reading for anyone from Butte or Montana. It should be literally required in our high schools.

One reason I say that, is you see the same divide-and-conquer techniques used by the company during the Berkeley Pit era is still employed today. We saw that when Butte-Silver Bow and British Petroleum representatives took people on one-one-one tours through the Dublin Gulch to try to explain the killing off the old neighborhood for good — while dumping toxic waste within a chip shot of many homes — was not only a good thing, but the only choice.
We see it when they try to get by with waste-in-place cleanup in the heart of our town.
Brian Leech is a professor of history at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois. I caught up with him for a phone conversation, and it was a lot of fun.
Listen in to hear why Leech became intrigued with Butte at a young age. Listen to hear how he decided to write a book about Meaderville, McQueen and East Butte and all the time he spent at the Butte-Silver Bow Public Archives researching the book. Listen in to hear that Leech agrees with my assertion that we have to build a statue of Mayor Shea in Walkerville.
Copies of Leech’s book are available at the Isle of Books at 43 E. Broadway. Buy a copy and read it today.
Today’s podcast is brought to you by Casagranda’s Steakhouse. Eat where the locals eat.
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Podcast No. 162: Jorey Thatcher

Jorey Thatcher was brought into this world with a dangerous DNA cocktail that combines a Thatcher with a Foley. His father is Gene, one of the five Thatcher brothers known for being tough, yet kind and generous.
His mother is Kathy Foley, a recently retired, no-nonsense science teacher at East Middle School.
Jorey is just 25, yet he is already a mover and a shaker in the Mining City. In 2022, he made the 20 Under 40 list in The Montana Standard. He works as a probation officer for the Montana Department of Corrections.
He graduated from Butte High in 2017, and he played football and wrestled for the Bulldogs. Whether it was at CCCS, the Butte Detention Center or for the Department of Corrections, Jorey has worked in or with law enforcement pretty much since he graduated from high school.
He has also been a volunteer with Butte Cares, Butte DUI Task Force, the Boulevard Fire Department, East Middle School and the Special Olympics.
The special Olympics is why Jorey is on the podcast today.
He will be taking part on the Southwest Polar Plunge to benefit the Montana Special Olympics on Saturday. The Plunge will take place at 3 p.m. at Stodden Park.
Click here to donate and help the local Polar Plunge reach its goal of $15,000. You can also show up at the Plunge with a cash or check for Jorey’s team. There is no better cause than the Special Olympics.
Listen in to this podcast as Jorey talks about growing up a Thatcher and the great expectations that come with that. Listen as he talks about his years at Butte High School, some of his good friends and getting into law enforcement.
Listen as we try to figure out a way to throw his mother into the pool during the Polar Plunge.
Then go to Stodden Park on Saturday to make sure his mother didn’t kill him for our comments in this podcast.
Today’s podcast is presented by Leskovar Honda, home of the 20-year, 200,000-mile warrantee.
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It turns out that Fraser MacDonald wasn’t a monster after all

Terror gripped my body when I was handed the slip that said I was to report to Fraser MacDonald’s office.
Fraser was the dean of boys at Butte High School, and his name was almost like a bad word. I had heard that name for years, and it was terrifying.
“Fraser gave me three nights of detention.”
“Fraser gave me five days in-school suspension.”
“Fraser won’t give me my report card until I serve all my detentions.”
My cousins, the D’Arcy boys, ran afoul of Fraser many times in their years at Butte High, and I heard about just about every time they got in trouble. Fraser, it seemed, was just some monster who could not be reasoned with.
When I transferred to Butte High from Butte Central following my sophomore year, I figured I would stay as far away from Fraser as humanly possible. Not one time was I late for school — like I was at Central all the time. Not once did I have an unexcused absence.
So, when the pink slip was handed to me by the student office aid, I thought for sure that Fraser was not going to believe that I didn’t skip. I was going to have face the unreasonable monster, and I was dead meat.
When I got to the office, Fraser was standing at the counter, dealing with a line of boys who had the same pink slip in their hand that I had.
“What, do you think you own this goddamn school?” I heard Fraser say to the first boy. “That’s five more nights.”
When the next boy handed him is form, Fraser started with, “You again, uh.” That boy’s conversation also didn’t end well. He, too, received a hefty number of nights of detention.
By the time I got to the counter, I think I was visibly shaking. I slid my pink slip to Fraser as if I was ordering from the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld.
Fraser grabbed the slip without looking at me. He held the slip with two hands for a what seemed like an eternity, and then Fraser shook his head.
“Billy,” he said as he finally made eye contact. “You didn’t skip. Get out of here.”
I had no idea how Fraser new my name. I was a golfer, and he was a golfer, but I was a Muni kid. Fraser played at the Country Club.
Fraser, though, was the executive director of the Montana State Golf Association, and he apparently paid attention to the junior and high school scores. He must have known that I was going to play golf for the Bulldogs.
Maybe he knew my grandpa Bill, who was the longtime president of the golf club at the Highland View Golf Course.
Maybe he knew my mom, who worked as a sign language interpreter at the school then.
Either way, I was thrilled that I wasn’t getting detention. I felt like I got the call from the governor at 11:59 p.m., and I was shocked that Fraser really wasn’t an unreasonable monster after all.
Well, not if you were a golfer, anyway.
My next encounter with Fraser came during the golf season. I was in the annex in a shop class when a boy I knew came in with a pink slip for me.
“I’m not even an aid,” the boy told me. “Fraser grabbed me in the hallway and told me to, ‘Get Bill Foley down here right now.’ Dude, you’re screwed.”
This time, there was no line when I got to the counter. Fraser was standing there, waiting for me.
“Billy,” he said as he waived his arm for me to walk around the counter. “Let’s go talk in my office.”
I took a seat as Fraser made a phone call to Dillon golf coach Tedd Stanisich, a Butte guy whom Fraser used to make fun of for spelling his name with an extra “D.”
A couple of days earlier, I played in the Dillon tournament with a Dillon boy who had a lot of trouble counting his shots. One of my good friends was Dillon’s best player — and one of the best players in the state. I told him that his teammate was a cheater, and he told Stanisich.
For about 10 minutes, I sat there and talked on the phone with Fraser and Stanny as they gave each other their typical hard time over the phone.
Stanny also asked me a couple of questions about his cheater. I didn’t want to be a narc, but Stanny already suspected the boy couldn’t count.
I was able to be a part of similar conversation a couple of times years later when I was covering MSGA tournaments for the newspaper. Fraser would always joke about Stanny being a sandbagger, an accusation Stanny laughed about, but denied.
Fraser, who passed away at the age of 88 on Jan. 6, was inducted into the Butte Sports Hall of Fame in 2017. That happened to be the first year that I was the executive director of the Hall of Fame.
It seemed so fitting that the Hall of Famers voted in Fraser as a contributor because he was a member of the selection committee that picked the first class of the Hall of Fame in 1987.
When Ron Davis asked Fraser if he was surprised to be selected during the induction ceremony, Fraser said, “Well, I know this. I wasn’t in the company of the people who went in the first time.”
Among the many contributions he made to the local sports scene, Fraser was a radio announcer. He called Butte High and Montana Tech games. He also called Butte Copper Kings baseball games.
When he first started working at KBOW, a young Paul Panisko was running the board for Fraser as he called a football game. As the clock ran out for halftime, Paul had two minutes of commercials queued up for the break, assuming Fraser would talk about the game at the half.
Instead, Paul got a lesson in scrambling to fill dead air as he heard Fraser say, “We’ll be back after this 20-minute break.”

Ron Davis, left, cracks up at a remark by Fraser MacDonald during the 2017 Butte Sports Hall of Fame induction ceremony at the Butte Civic Center. Davis, a broadcasting legend himself, says that Fraser is the one who taught him how to call a game.
I got to talk to Fraser a ton during the months leading up to his Hall of Fame induction. He was so excited to join the list of Butte legends, even if he would joke that he didn’t belong.
Even after the induction, Fraser would occasionally give me a call out of the blue for the next couple of years. I would often have tears of laughter running down my face by the time I hung up.
It has been several years since Fraser made me laugh. I tried to call him a few times to try to correct his address so I could make sure he got a ballot to vote for Hall of Fame classes, but he never answered.
I knew his hearing was bad, and I knew he was dealing with dementia. Still, I was hoping for one more time to see Frasier, who most definitely belongs with the other immortals who donned the Green Jackets of the Butte Sports Hall of Fame.
That hope faded away for good when I saw his obituary online. Fraser was 88, but it still seems too early to say goodbye.
When I look back at Fraser’s life, though, I will do so with a smile. I might even laugh out loud some times.
It is amazing to think that to me, he went from an unreasonable monster to a legend to a friend.
I will miss him.
— Bill Foley, who is kicking himself for not skipping after getting the golf pass from Fraser, 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.














