When I was a kid, I used to think kindness had to be loud to make an impact. Maybe I got it from the superhero movies I watched where kindness looked like saving the day, making great speeches that turned to quotable quotes, and changing lives in the most obvious ways. The kind that gets noticed, remembered, and applauded.
But my grandmother taught me otherwise.
My lola, Clarita Ponce de Leon Palay or Nay Claring, as everyone fondly called her, lived the type of kindness that is tucked in everyday, mundane moments. Albeit quiet, it was the kind that lingered and resonated deeply.
Lola Claring owned a fairly large and well-established stall in the Old Public Market. At first glance, it appeared just like any other, but from the stories passed down by family and friends, hers was known to attract perhaps the most consistent streams of customers, many of whom she greeted by name. Like many vendors, she would rise before dawn and arrive at the market by 4 a.m. Yet unlike most, she would often return home for lunch, having completely sold out her entire stock for the day well before the bustle of the market began to wear off.
People would often wonder what made her stall so special? After all, they all sold the same pork, the same cuts, the same products. And yet, customers kept flocking and coming back to her.
The stall may have been bare of decorations and loud marketing tactics, but it thrived on my lola’s charm, quiet generosity, and unwavering softheartedness—all delivered with remarkable ease, even as she tallied totals and gave change without ever using a calculator. Her warmth earned not just her customers’ loyalty, but more importantly, their respect and love.
If someone came short on cash, she’d let them pay next time or sometimes not at all. If a customer bought half a kilo, she’d give extra or “paaman” as it is called. Not because she had to, but because she believed in giving. She knew all too well what it’s like to live with just barely enough to make ends meet.
Born on July 28, 1937 in Araceli, Palawan, she was the eldest among seven siblings. She graduated valedictorian in elementary school. But despite her promise, she was pulled out of school early due to her family’s feudal outlook: one that believed girls belonged at home, not in classrooms. So instead of continuing her studies, she began working young, helping support her many siblings.
My grandfather, Lolo Asiong, was then a high school principal in Dumaran. When they eventually moved to Puerto Princesa, they saw an opportunity to grow in their careers while raising a family of ten. Remarkably, all eight of their sons and daughters went on to finish their studies and become professionals in their own fields. They invested in a lantsa or motorboat, a pump boat, and a farm, raising livestock and transporting both goods and passengers, alongside running their market stall. Eventually, years later, my lolo was given the opportunity to serve as the Community Affairs Officer of the Provincial Government, while Lola Claring managed the market “pwesto”.
I never got to witness those glory days of her business. By the time I was old enough to understand the ins and outs of the trade, the shop was slowly fading– worn down by the rising competition in the market and the new malls and my lola’s advancing age. The routines had faded. But the stories remained – as well as her kindness and strength.
Even long after she had retired from the market, I would see people, couples, and old friends visit her at home. Some came from her hometown, traveling all the way from municipalities far from the city. She would prepare a full lunch, often her best dishes (oh, did I mention? She was the best cook!). She’d welcome them, lend them money if needed, even let them stay for a night or two.
She did these even as she quietly carried her own burdens. At the time, my grandfather’s health was failing, and when he passed, her only steady source of income was my Lolo’s modest pension. But somehow, her giving never stopped.
After her early morning trip to the market for groceries, she’d slip into my room without fuss, hand me my favorite pasalubong, and tuck folded bills into my pocket, despite being stretched thin by maintenance medication for herself. Despite her age and all that weighed on her, she made it a point to never miss my milestones. Every school contest, every performance, I’d find her in the crowd, sometimes calmly seated at the back. On the occasions she couldn’t come, she’d wait for me at home saying she prayed for me earnestly. She dreamt with me, and it breaks my heart that she never got to see me graduate and witness how our dreams are slowly unfolding, one-by-one. Even when all I had was a dream and barely enough money, she was more than willing to volunteer—ready to ride with me to and from school if that’s what it took.
She may have given me dresses, shoes, and the little luxuries, but the most important gift she gave me was her example. A life lived with compassion, humility, and optimism. She taught me that true altruism means making space for others, making them feel seen and heard, and expecting nothing in return. Whether you were a high-ranking official or an ordinary customer, she had a way of making you feel you mattered.
The younger generations may no longer remember her. But to those of us who knew her, or knew the stories of her, she lives on. I can only hope to carry a fraction of her humaneness and charm and, in my own way, be as timeless as she was.
