We can see more than 65 constellations through the course of the year in our Shamokin skies. Some are big, some are small, some are bright and some are dim.

Constellations are pictures in the stars that cultures of old dreamed up as visual aides to help tell their stories, lore, mythology and such. They didn't have a lot of books or DVDs back then, so they used these dot-to-dot or star-to-star pictures to help spin the tales over the generations.

Most of the constellations and their stories in our heavens come from Greek and Roman mythology. We have bears and many other beasts, royalty, parts of sail ships, a compass and a lot of other stuff. But of all the constellations splashed across the heavens, there's only one musical instrument. That's Lyra the Lyre, which is the great-great-great-grandfather of today's harp.

This is a great time to see Lyra the Lyre because it's nearly overhead in the high eastern sky. Lyra is a small but distinct constellation with a very bright star as one its members. Vega is the third brightest nighttime star we see in our sky — about 25 light-years or about 145 trillion miles away — and all you have to do to find it is look for the brightest star you can see in the high eastern sky. Unless you have super-duper light pollution issues, you'll also see there's a small parallelogram of much fainter stars hanging to the lower right of Vega.

That's about all there is to Lyra. Maybe with a heaping helping of imagination, you can see a little harp there. The stars that make up the parallelogram — Zeta 1 Lyrae, Delta 2 Lyrae, Sheliak and Sulafat — are not part of any cluster. They vary in distance from 154 light-years to more than 900 light-years away. The stars just happen to fall in just the right line of sight to make that parallelogram.

As it is with most constellations, there are several mythological tales about them.

The one I like is the yarn about how Mercury, the messenger of the gods, was fooling around on a slow delivery day and invented the first harp using a tortoise shell and stringing it with dried cow guts. (I apologized if you're eating breakfast and reading this!) Anyway, he realized you could make beautiful music with the bovine strings. The trouble is, he had absolutely no musical talent, so he gave it to Apollo, the god of the sun, as a birthday present.

Apollo was initially excited about his new musical toy, but he just didn't have the discipline to learn how to play it well, so it started gathering dust in the closest. One day, when Apollo's son, Orpheus, was looking for his raincoat in the closet, he discovered the harp, picked it up and immediately started making beautiful music. Apollo's kid was a natural!

His music was so wonderful, even wild animals came to listen to his playing and tree tops would bend over to hear him. Even fire breathing dragons would be lulled to sleep by the soothing tones of Orpheus and his Lyre.

Orpheus grew up a very handsome, talented man and married the beautiful princess Eurydice and had a great life. He went out on tour and commanded huge money for his concerts. He had all the money and palaces anyone could ask for, but Eurydice was his greatest treasure by far. That's why Orpheus took it so hard when his beloved was bitten by a poisonous snake and died nearly instantly.

The grief-stricken Orpheus went into seclusion for more than a year, but finally pulled himself together enough to pick up his harp and resume his beautiful music. When he went back on tour, he was mobbed by fans, and now that he was single again, young woman were throwing themselves at him. However, he was in no mood to meet them. No one could replace Eurydice.

After one concert when he was sneaking out the back door of the stage, a mob of women attacked him, and as usual, he refused all their advances. Security wasn't what it should be that night, and the mob got violent. One woman literally tore his head off and threw his body and lyre into a nearby river. Talk about a tough crowd!

Apollo and the rest of the gods recovered what was left of Orpheus from the river and buried him at the foot of Mount Olympus. They then placed his magical lyre up into the stars as the constellation we see today. It's said that if you're star watching in the distant countryside, not only can you see Lyra the Lyre, but if you're really quiet, you might hear celestial tunes from it. If that doesn't work, try firing up some soft music on your mp3 player.

For extra credit, get out your telescope and see if you can spot what's known as the Ring Nebula in the constellation Lyra.

It's known formally by astronomers as M57, and it's what's called a planetary nebula. It has nothing to do with any distant planet system, but it's a dying star that is blowing off the last shells of hydrogen and helium gas before it shrinks to a white dwarf.

If you have a halfway decent telescope and a really clear sky, scan your scope about halfway between the two stars that make up the lower end of the parallelogram of Lyra, and you'll see what looks almost like a little smoke ring.

I took a picture of it with my astrophotography setup, and I have it here to show you what to expect. Now, you won't see the colors I have in the time exposure photo, but you might see a light bluish tint to it through your scope.

The Ring Nebula is more than 2,300 light-years away! The light we see now from this ailing star has taken since the year 300 B.C. just to meet your eyes!

Mike Lynch is an amateur astronomer and professional broadcast meteorologist for WCCO Radio in Minneapolis and is author of the book, "Pennsylvania Starwatch," available at bookstores and at his Web site www.lynchandthestars.com.