I know summer is almost here because it's time for our "Burn All Your Bad Grades in a Bonfire" party. Anticipation of this annual event is the flicker that keeps the flame of hope burning through the last grueling weeks of school.

In our home, long gone are the simpler days when we fretted over whether our little prodigies would come home with a "check-plus" on their workbook pages or the less stellar "check." The carefree life of gold stars, smiley faces and "great job" stickers has been replaced by "Have this paper signed" notations from the teacher.

It's not enough that my child made a substandard grade that will affect his semester grade point average and possibly keep him out of exclusive Ivy League schools, but they also want me to put my name by that grade. I barely made it through 6th grade the first time around. It hardly seems fair that at age 41 I have to take responsibility for a 79 on a math paper because somebody else forgot to carry the two. Yet there it was, a stack of papers from various subjects bearing my name with red marks sprinkled liberally across the pages. I definitely concurred that it was time for the bonfire.

With just days of school remaining, my kids invited their friends to take part in the momentous ceremony. Each child came armed with stacks of papers, half used workbooks, all the school flyers they forgot to give to their moms, broken binders held together with duck tape because their dads said they weren't shelling out one more dime for school supplies, ripped pencil pouches, and every bad grade for which they had been grounded.

A definite mood of elation permeated our event as the initial pile of school work went up in flames. As the approaching finality of the school year sunk in, dancing and jubilation commenced  -- and soon the kids joined me. Ripping and tearing were rampant. Laughing turned to giggling as everyone released the burden of their 30 pound back packs into the glorious blaze.

Eventually, though, the mood turned somber as each child sent their most horrifying grades into the fire. There is nothing like the smell of a failing grade going up in flames to make one reflective.

"So long English paper I turned in late and got 20 points marked off."

"There goes my C in Spelling."

"Hey, whose 40 is that burning next to my 68?"

It seemed appropriate when my son called for a moment of silence. As he quietly hummed the national anthem, the elementary school survivors assembled offered their thoughts about what the event meant to them.

"This is good riddance to the grade that took nine months of my life and gave me nothing but hours of hard work in return," commented one friend.

"After giving 6 hours a day, week after week, to fifth grade," my daughter lamented, "I won't miss it one bit."