When I was maybe three years old, I was obsessed with this song

Hear the words of Jim James, who recalls a sacred fragment of childhood: “When I was maybe three years old, I was obsessed with this song ‘Leader of the Band’ by Dan Fogelberg. My mom took me to the mall and bought me a 45 of it. We would listen to that song all the time.” What may seem a simple memory of a boy, his mother, and a song is, in truth, a testimony to the power of early influences, the shaping force of music, and the tender strength of a parent’s love.

The heart of this saying rests in the union of memory, music, and motherly care. To a child, a single song can become an entire world, a doorway into feeling, into imagination, into identity. The gift of a small vinyl record is not merely the giving of an object, but the giving of validation—that the child’s passion matters, that his voice and obsessions are worth honoring. By granting him this treasure, his mother taught him that his inner life had value.

The ancients knew well the power of early inspiration. In Greece, young minds were shaped not only by tutors, but by the songs of poets and bards, whose verses etched courage, wisdom, and longing into the hearts of children. In Rome, Virgil’s Aeneid was taught to the young so that the rhythm of heroism and duty would shape their souls. Likewise, Jim James’s early obsession with a single song reveals how music has always been a vessel for memory, identity, and spirit.

The song itself, “Leader of the Band,” is a hymn of gratitude—a son honoring his father, the quiet hero whose music shaped his life. How fitting, then, that Jim James first heard it at his mother’s side, and that she was the one to place the record in his hands. In this moment, art, family, and love became intertwined. Just as the song honored a parent, so too did the act of listening honor the bond between mother and son.

History gives us another mirror: the young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who, encouraged by his father, was nurtured in his earliest passions for music. Though his gifts were extraordinary, it was the presence of a parent who listened, who provided, who believed, that allowed those gifts to grow. Without that support, his genius might have remained silent. So too, Jim James’s mother, by honoring his childhood love of music, played her part in nurturing the artist he would one day become.

The lesson for us is simple yet profound: never dismiss the passions of children. What seems small—a record, a sketch, a question, a dream—may be the spark that lights the fire of destiny. Parents and guardians hold in their hands the power to either smother or kindle that fire. To take seriously the loves of a child is to teach them that their soul matters, that their joy is worth pursuing, and that the world is open to their voice.

Practical wisdom calls us: listen to the children in your life. If they are drawn to art, nurture it. If they are drawn to questions, answer them. If they are drawn to music, let them play and listen. These are not distractions; they are the first stirrings of who they will become. And if you yourself are grown, remember your own first song, first passion, first fire—and return to it, for it may still hold the thread of your true self.

Thus, the words of Jim James endure as more than memory: they remind us that love, music, and small acts of encouragement can echo across decades. A mother and her son, a mall and a 45, a song played again and again—these become the seeds of a life, the stitches of destiny, the echoes of eternity.