Matthew Plocek

1959 - 2025

Matthew Plocek

June 17, 1959 - October 12, 2025

Affectionately known as "Matt" and "Pop Pop," Matthew Plocek left this world on October 12, 2025. He'll be joining his son, Ross, in heaven-finally at peace together-and leaving behind a world that loved him more than words can say.

Matt was, first and foremost, a dad. Our dad. And if you knew our dad, you knew that being a father-and later, a grandfather-was the truest joy in his life. He loved his kids with a quiet but unmistakable pride-the kind that didn't need words to prove itself. You could see it in the small things. The way we never left without cash for gas money. The random phone calls, just to check in. The way he showed up when you needed him-always, no matter what.

But he wasn't just a dad. He was a husband who adored his wife - never missing an anniversary, a Valentine's Day, or a hug and kiss goodbye before she left for a trip. He was an uncle who loved his nieces and nephews as if they were his own, and a proud godparent to those who trusted him to help guide their kids through life. And if you were lucky enough to know him, you know his parting words were always the same-to friends, family, and anyone he loved: "Love ya up."

And if you knew our dad, you knew that laugh. It wasn't just loud-it was seismic. You could hear it before you saw him, rolling across barns, backyards, and fairgrounds like a weather front. It had a way of filling every space it touched-the kind of laugh that made bad days better, awkward silences dissolve, and everyone around him feel a little lighter. It was the sound of joy, of connection, of being with his people. It was how you knew he was there, and how you knew you were home.

Our dad was a farmer through and through. The kind who could read a field the way most people read a book: patient, exacting, and attuned to every line and contour of the land. He believed in doing things right and doing them well, usually with the best piece of equipment he could find. He loved sharing that life just as much as living it, never missing a chance to take a kid for a ride in the tractor or combine, grinning as wide as they were, proud to show off the view from his world. He could run the most sophisticated machinery imaginable, yet never quite figured out a computer. The one he bought years ago eventually found its true calling as a digital picture frame-cycling through the faces of the people he loved most. That, he decided, was technology worth having.

His generosity ran deep. Not loud, not showy, but constant. He would give you the shirt off his back without a second thought. And then hand you cash to go with it. He believed in people. In showing up, lending a hand, and quietly making things better. He saved every card, every photo, every crayon drawing, every scrap of love ever given to him. He held onto those things like small treasures, reminders of how much love he'd been given and how much he had left to give.

He was happiest at the Lucas County Fair, a place stitched into every season of his life. He showed horses there as a kid, then livestock with his own children, and later with nieces and nephews who kept their animals at "Uncle Matt's barn." But the auction was always his favorite day. He never bid on the grand champions or the kids with walls full of ribbons. Instead, he watched for the ones whose animals hadn't won anything at all. Those were the bids he raised, the animals he bought. Sometimes he even upped his friends' bids just to make sure the price-and the kid-got a little boost. He wanted those kids to know they were seen, that they'd done something good, and that it mattered.

My dad was always surrounded by people who loved him just as fiercely. His sisters-Kim, Diane, Cindy, and Kelly-were his lifelong partners in laughter. Together, they were their own joyful chaos: loud, funny, and happiest with a beer in hand, laughing until they cried, usually over something no one else would even understand. They could turn any room, any backyard, any kitchen table into a reunion.

And then there were the friends who were just as much family. The ones who didn't knock, who knew where the beer fridge was, who showed up just to sit for a while. They were the constant hum of his life, the kind of friends who never had to call first because the door was always open and there was always another chair in the barn. His world was full because he made it that way. Through kindness, loyalty, and the rare ability to make everyone feel like they belonged.

Faith ran quietly through him. The kind you lived more than you preached. He was a good Catholic, at Mass every Sunday, usually standing in the back so he could slip out a few minutes early. And when it came to Ohio State football, he was every bit as devout. Loyal, superstitious, convinced they'd lose if he listened live. He was ride-or-die Buckeye. Except for when they lost.

If he wasn't in the field or in his truck, you knew exactly where to find him. In the barn. It was more than a workspace; it was his sanctuary. The heartbeat of his day. The place everyone went when they needed to vent, laugh, or just sit quietly and be near him. His barn was part bar, part confessional. The door was always open, and the company was always good. If you stayed long enough, you'd leave with a lighter heart and at least one new story.

And if you had to sum our dad up in one word, it would be love. Not the soft kind or the easy kind. The everyday kind. The fixing, showing-up, checking-in, making-sure-you're-fed kind. The kind that stayed steady through every season. He gave it freely. He gave it often. He made sure you felt it. And he left enough of it behind to last a lifetime.

Our dad is survived by his wife, and our mom, Sheri; his children, Andi, Nick (Maura), and Kyle (Claire); his granddaughters, Gwen and Bridget; his father, Pete; his brother, Mark; his sisters, Kim, Diane, Cindy, Kelly, and their spouses; and countless nieces, nephews, and friends who will miss him always.

He'll be remembered for his laugh, his heart, and the quiet, constant love that made everyone who knew him feel like family.

Visitation will be from 1:00 p.m.-5:00 p.m., Sunday, October 19, at Peinert-Dunn Funeral Home, in Whitehouse, OH, 6603 Providence St. A funeral Mass will be held at 10:30 a.m., Monday, October 20, at Saint Joseph Catholic Church, in Maumee, 104 W. Broadway St.

If you wish to honor our dad, please consider donating to the Lucas County Junior Fair Auction, in memory of Matt Plocek, 1406 Key Street, Maumee, OH 43537, instead of flowers.