You’ve heard of “dueling banjos.”

Our house has been the scene of “dueling bugles” for the past week.

This story starts in the 1950s, when my father was old enough to go to Scout camp, and the Rexcraft company offered the official Boy Scout Bugle in a chrome plate.

Based on my online research, this bugle was offered in the pages of Boys’ Life magazine for the whopping sum of $6. Unfortunately, I don’t have all the details about how my father came to possess the bugle, but I imagine a scene much like the Ralphie and the Ovaltine/Little Orphan Annie Secret Decoder Ring from the Christmas Story. I can see him saving money from his paper route, sending off his pennies, and eagerly checking the mailbox every day for his new bugle. At any rate, we have a photograph of my dad, who was about 13 or 14 years old, at Scout camp, in full uniform, with the bugle tucked under his arm.

Fast forward a few years: A has achieved enough rank in Scouts to hold a leadership position. One of the leadership positions is that of bugler, and with several years of trumpet playing under his belt, I thought this was a sure thing. However, he had his eye on something a little loftier. So, although he was originally nominated for bugler, he declined in favor of patrol leader. Somehow or other, G’s name also got tossed in the mix for bugler, and when the position was offered to him, he accepted it. G is not one to let a little thing like not knowing how to play a bugle get in the way!

G plays the saxophone well, for his age and experience, but there is little to no crossover between playing a reed instrument and a brass one. With no handy, dandy valves, the bugle relies strictly on the embouchure of the bugler to create the notes. This wasn’t something G was going to pick up just by watching some YouTube videos. I asked G what his plan was, since they were leaving for camp in a week. “I’m going to start by getting Grandpap’s bugle,” he said.

I had my own plan and it consisted of cornering the newly appointed senior patrol leader and informing him that his first job was going to be teaching the troop bugler to bugle, no ifs, ands, buts or sibling spats. Unfortunately, the troop bugler didn’t think too much of this plan. The only thing more cacophonous than the ghastly sounds emitting from the bugle was the rising pitch of the feud that started shortly after the first lesson.

Plan B: resort to YouTube. Except, we still have no internet service at the farm, other than what I can get through my cellphone. This relegated practice time to when we were both at home, and I wasn’t using my phone for work or anything else important. So, every night, around 10 p.m., bugle practice commenced, lasted for about an hour, and resumed in the morning, around 6 a.m., before I dashed out the door to work.

There is nothing soothing or relaxing about the notes of a bugle, especially one that’s not played particularly well. In fact, most nights, after I wrenched the bugle from G’s hands, and forced him to go to bed, I laid awake for another hour, willing the hairs on the back of my neck to lay back down, or trying to get the ringing in my ears to cease.

By Wednesday, I was ready to throw in the towel. We all needed some sleep and some silence, but G wouldn’t hear of it. He was determined, and just to show me that it wasn’t all in vain, he finally hit the first three notes of taps with some consistency. Three down, 21 to go, and three days to get there. I did not think it looked promising.

Friday morning found A and E invited to spend the day with friends, and after a week of basketball camp, G begged to be allowed to stay home and “sleep in.” As I went about my morning chores, I heard the bugle fire up yet again. So much for a quiet morning. I popped in my ear buds and got to work.

As the boys assembled their gear for camp, G was dismayed to see A’s trumpet case in the pile to be loaded into the back of the truck. This started fight #755 between the two of them over the darn bugle. Rolling my eyes toward the heavens, I asked my dad if this is how he saw things playing out when he opened that mailbox back in the 1950s. There may have been a few other choice words in that sentiment as well.

Sunday morning finally arrived, and the campers eagerly loaded the truck. Trying my best to stay out of their way and trying not to mind that I was going to miss them terribly, and yet they couldn’t get on their way fast enough, I lingered over my morning tea. Suddenly, I heard the strong, clear notes of taps coming from the driveway. Assuming it was A antagonizing G just one more time, I stormed out of the house, ready to send both horns flying.

There was G, puffing away. A was leaning up against the truck, taking in the show. As our eyes met, I could see the smallest amount of pride in A’s eyes. He shrugged, as if to say, “who knew?” When G finished, I asked him to play it one more time, so I could record it. Although he almost missed a few notes, because it’s hard to play the bugle when you’ve got a huge smile on your face, I managed to capture that performance for posterity.

There are 15 songs in the Boy Scout repertoire. One down, 14 to go.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.