SOUTH KINGSTOWN — Fifty years ago, fresh-faced veterans danced to Glenn Miller and rock ’n’ roll at the new American Legion hall on Kingstown Road.

Wives brought covered dishes. Husbands, mostly World War II veterans, played vinyl records or listened to a live band from Pawtucket.

“A few did the jitterbug,” says veteran Raymond Lessard, who spoke at the building’s 1958 dedication. “We had a lot of fun here.”

No one dances anymore. Faced with rising costs and an aging membership, the group put the cement-block building up for sale in November. The asking price: $499,000.

“We’re selling the building because it’s a drain on the post,” says Post 39 Commander Jim Weinreich, a 46-year-old Army veteran. The two-story building needs a new roof, a fire alarm system and windows. Some heating bills top $1,000 a month. “All our resources are being used for fuel bills and maintenance,” he said.

Membership at the post has fallen to 73, from a Cold War peak of 130. Meetings draw less than a dozen people. And many of the older veterans are gone.

Across the country, American Legion posts are struggling with rising costs and dwindling numbers, as an estimated 1,500 World War II veterans die each day.

In Rhode Island, membership has dropped about 20 percent since 1997 to 8,000 members. Two posts opened in the last decade, but seven others closed, leaving 54. “A few more may be in jeopardy,” says Eugene Pytka, state adjutant. At Pytka’s Central Falls post, membership has fallen from 355 to 190.

The exceptions are those posts that successfully recruit veterans of the Vietnam War and the Middle East conflicts.

But, adds Pytka, “There were 22 million World War II vets. There aren’t 22 million Gulf War vets.” Many posts will survive in the next five years, but they will be smaller, he says.

Some will have to find new ways to make money. Many operate bars, but with the bad economy, “That business has been hurt, too,” says Pytka.

For years, Post 39 made money with bingo. A good night would draw as many as 70 people, says John Henneberry, a former commander. “We had 10 or 12 workers. It was really profitable.”

Then, about 20 years ago, the group got older. Fewer veterans helped with the games, and some players stayed home, Henneberry says. The post held its last bingo game in August.

Another source of income ends this month. For years, the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of South County rented the old dance floor for its Sunday service. But the church is moving in three weeks.

The veterans hope they can lease space in the building once it’s sold. “Of course, we’ll have to organize our junk,” says Weinreich, an Army cryptographer who broke enemy codes in World War II.

Their “junk” includes a bookcase jammed with citations, awards and a battered canteen. One plaque, more than a decade old, is for “100-percent plus” membership.

No matter what happens, the group will close the building this month to avoid more bills, says Weinreich. That doesn’t mean the organization will fold, he adds quickly. “The building may be going, but we’re not.”

The group has even attracted a few younger veterans in recent years, he says, “but it’s a slow process.”

Still, Henneberry, Post 39’s oldest member, worries about the loss of active members.

Founded in the early 1900s, the American Legion has lobbied for programs that benefit veterans, he says. “They are the people who do all the work, and a lot of them are older now. If you don’t have a lobbyist, you don’t get anywhere.”

Lessard, 78, agrees. Back from the war, he got a loan through the G.I. Bill to buy a home. “I worked for the phone company for $35 a week. I couldn’t afford a house on that.”

On a recent afternoon, he crosses the empty dance floor. He pointed the rubber tip of his metal cane at 27 portraits hanging on a far wall. All of the men in the photographs –– in their 20s and 30s –– are former post commanders. Some fought in World War I.

“The ones with black frames have passed away,” said Lessard. More than two-thirds are rimmed in black. In a brown frame, a young Lessard stares back at the older veteran, a bent man in glasses, a blue blazer and a string tie. The younger face, without creases or lines, is serious.

After a moment, Lessard speaks. “We’ve got a nice home here,” he says. “I wish we could get a few more members.”

pdavis@projo.com