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1. Low-Pitched Roofs

First, look up. These roofs aren’t the steep, showy ones on Victorian houses. Those feel like they’re reaching for the sky—all frills and drama. A Craftsman roof? It’s low. Soft, like a cozy beanie on the house’s head. It hugs the land. It doesn’t fight it.

This isn’t just for looks. Back in the 20s, designers hated all the fussy, over-the-top styles of the time. They wanted simple. Natural. That low roof? It makes the house feel grounded. Like it’s not going anywhere. Often, it stretches over the front porch too. Seamless—like the porch was always part of the plan, not an afterthought. And most of the time, the gables (those triangular ends) face the sides. So the whole house feels wide, not tall. No towering here. Just calm.

2. Deep Front Porches

If the roof is the beanie, the porch is the house’s handshake. Firm. Friendly. Like it’s been waiting to invite you in. These porches aren’t tiny stoops. You don’t drop Amazon packages there and run. No. They’re deep. Roomier. Enough for two rocking chairs—maybe the kind with faded flower cushions. A porch swing that creaks just right. A small side table with a chipped mug from this morning’s coffee.

This was on purpose. The Arts and Crafts movement—what these bungalows are about—was all about simpler, more connected living. The porch was your outdoor living room. A place to wave at neighbors walking by. Or sit with your kid while they color. Or watch the sunset after a long day. It blurs the line between inside and out. No walls. Just fresh air and good vibes.

3. Tapered Columns

Those porches? The columns holding them up aren’t just sticks. They’re like art. Think thick, square, and tapered—wider at the bottom, narrower at the top. My cousin once asked why they’re special. I said, “They’re like tree trunks. Solid. Rooted. You know they’ll hold the roof up, even in a storm.” She got it right away.

People call these “battered” columns. But that sounds harsher than they look. They sit on heavy piers—brick, river rock, sometimes concrete. No delicate, twisty columns like on Colonial houses. These have presence. You can see exactly how the house is built. It feels honest. No hiding. Just “here’s how I stand—and I stand strong.”

4. Wide Eaves and Exposed Rafters

Look at that roof again. See how it sticks out past the walls? Those are wide eaves. They change everything. In summer, they shade the windows. So you don’t have to crank the AC. In rain, they keep water off the foundation. So you don’t get leaks. Practical, right?

But the real magic is underneath. They don’t hide the rafters—the wooden beams that hold the roof up. They leave them out. These “rafter tails” are little lines of wood, all in a row. Like the house is showing off its bones. Sometimes there are tiny decorative brackets under there too. But nothing fancy. Just a small detail that says, “We cared about how this looks—even the parts you don’t always notice.” That’s the Arts and Crafts way: beauty in the structure, not just the decorations.

5. Multi-Pane-Over-One Windows

Windows are a house’s eyes. And these bungalows have nice ones. The most common style? Double-hung. So the bottom sash slides up, the top slides down. But here’s the thing: the bottom is one big pane—perfect for staring at the yard. The top is split into smaller panes—three, four, sometimes six. They call it “6-over-1.” But you don’t need the name. You’ll know it when you see it.

My neighbor has these. On sunny mornings, the little top panes cast tiny rainbows on her living room rug. It’s not a big, flashy thing. Just a quiet joy. The trim around the windows is wide and simple too. No fancy carvings. Just plain wood. And they often group them in pairs or threes. So the room gets lots of natural light. No dark, stuffy corners here.

6. Natural Materials

Let’s talk materials. You won’t find fake vinyl siding that peels after five years. Or stone that looks like plastic. These houses use real stuff. Wood is king—wide clapboard siding that turns soft gray over time. Shingles on the gables that look like they’ve been there since the 20s. Because they have. Stone and brick too—for foundations, chimneys, those porch piers we talked about.

The idea was to use local stuff. If the house is in the mountains, they used stone from the nearby creek. If it’s in the woods, wood from local oak trees. Sometimes they mix them—clapboard on the first floor, shingles on the gables. To add texture. It’s not about matching perfectly. It’s about looking like the house grew out of the land. Not dropped there.

7. Earth-Toned Colors

These houses don’t yell. Their colors whisper. Think forest greens, deep browns, warm rusts, earthy reds. Like someone took a paintbrush to the woods and said, “That’s the palette.” No neon pinks. No bright blues. Just calm.

The trim is usually a contrast—soft cream, or a darker shade of the main color. To make the details pop: the window casings, the eaves, the columns. My favorite one in the neighborhood is taupe with cream trim. It blends right into the oak trees next to it. Like it’s part of the landscape. The goal? A house that feels like a retreat. Not a spectacle. You walk by, and it makes you breathe a little deeper.

8. Big Chimneys

Every Craftsman bungalow has a heart. And it’s usually a big, solid chimney. Not the thin, metal vents on modern houses that look like afterthoughts. These are thick, made of brick or stone. And they stand out. Often on the side of the house. So you can see them from the street.

It’s not just for heat. That chimney is a symbol. Back in the 20s, the hearth was where the family gathered—stories, meals, warm fires in winter. The chimney says, “This is a place where people come together.” My grandma’s friend had one made of rough-hewn brick. In winter, you could smell wood smoke from two blocks away. It felt like a hug from the house.

9. One or One-and-a-Half Stories

“Bungalow” basically means “not too tall.” Most are one story, or one-and-a-half. No three-story towers here. The idea was to keep it human-sized—easy to walk through, easy to clean, easy to feel at home in.

I used to babysit for a family in a one-and-a-half story bungalow. The upstairs was tucked under the roof. With little dormer windows (we’ll talk about those next). The kids had their bedrooms up there. They’d pile blankets in the corner to read. It wasn’t big. But it felt cozy—like the house was just the right size. No wasted space. No rooms you never use. Perfect for middle-class families back then. Still perfect now.

10. Dormers

Those one-and-a-half story houses? They need dormers to work. A dormer is a window that sticks up from the sloped roof. Like a little bump that lets light and air into the upstairs. The most common kind is gabled—it has a tiny triangular roof of its own. Some have shed dormers—flat, sloping roofs that stretch across the top.

My aunt has a shed dormer on her bungalow’s upstairs bedroom. Without it, that room would be dark and cramped. You’d hit your head on the ceiling if you stood up too fast. But with the dormer? There’s enough light for her desk. She even has a small window seat where she drinks tea in the morning. It’s smart design—looks good and works well. No extra frills.

11. Open Floor Plans

Step inside. You’ll notice something different for the 20s: no tiny, boxed-in rooms. Victorian houses had parlors with doors that closed. Dining rooms that felt like museums—all formal, no fun. Craftsman bungalows? The living room flows right into the dining room. The front door opens straight into the living room. No fancy foyer wasting space.

My grandma’s Victorian had three doors between the kitchen and the living room. So if you were cooking, you could barely hear anyone talking. But my friend’s bungalow? She can stir soup on the stove and chat with her husband on the couch. Hallways are narrow too. Max space for living, not walking. It’s not “open concept” like today’s houses. But it was a big step toward laid-back living.

12. Central Fireplaces

We talked about the chimney outside. Now let’s talk about the fireplace inside. It’s the star of the living room. Big, solid, made of brick or tile. With a thick wood mantel—no tiny, flimsy ones here. Sometimes there are built-in shelves on either side. Even if there aren’t, it’s the focal point.

I know a couple who bought a 1920s bungalow. Their fireplace is made of old, rough bricks. They put a big wool rug in front of it. Every Sunday, they have friends over for board games. It’s not just for heat—it’s where everyone gathers. And look closely: often there are small, high windows on either side of the fireplace. Just enough light to keep the room bright. But not enough to take away from the fire’s glow. Clever, right?

13. Built-In Furniture

Here’s a secret: these houses are small, but they feel big because of built-ins. Bookshelves next to the fireplace. A buffet in the dining room. Window seats with storage underneath. My best friend’s bungalow has a built-in desk in the hallway. Perfect for her laptop. No extra furniture needed.

These aren’t just “furniture attached to the wall.” They’re part of the house’s design. Made from the same wood as the trim. So everything matches. Back in the 20s, builders wanted to squeeze as much function as possible into small spaces. And honestly? It works. My friend has so many books. But you’d never know—they’re all in those built-ins. No clunky bookshelves taking up floor space.

14. Lots of Woodwork and Trim

Walk into a Craftsman bungalow. You’ll smell the wood. Rich, warm oak—no painted white trim here. The trim around doors and windows is wide, thick. Baseboards are sturdy. Not that thin stuff in new houses. Sometimes there are ceiling beams. Or wainscoting (wood paneling) on the lower half of the walls.

My uncle refinished the woodwork in his bungalow a few years ago. He said when he stripped off the old varnish, the grain was so beautiful. He almost didn’t want to put new varnish on it. The idea was to show off the material—no hiding. Wood is beautiful on its own. So why paint it? That’s the Arts and Crafts way: honesty in what you use.

15. Art Glass Windows

These houses love simplicity. But they make room for a little art—especially in the windows. “Art glass” (stained glass, but not the church kind) is common. Think simple geometric patterns—squares, diamonds, maybe a little curve. In earthy colors: greens, browns, soft reds.

I saw a bungalow last month with art glass in the front door. When the sun hit it, it cast soft, colorful stripes on the entryway floor. It’s not a big, fancy scene—no saints, no castles. Just a quiet, pretty detail that makes you smile. It’s art you use every day. Not just look at. That’s the point.

16. Solid Front Doors

The front door is the first impression. These houses get it right. Solid wood—usually oak. Heavy enough that it makes a satisfying “thunk” when you close it. Often, there’s a small window (called a “light”) in the top third. Sometimes plain. Sometimes with that art glass we talked about.

Look closely. You’ll see a small detail: a “shelf” or “dentil” molding just below the window. It’s a tiny horizontal strip. Nothing flashy. But it adds character. The hardware? Thick, oil-rubbed bronze or hammered black iron. No shiny brass that tarnishes. It feels sturdy. Like it’ll last 100 years (and it has). This door isn’t just for keeping people out. It’s for saying, “Welcome. This is a good place.”

17. Inglenooks (Sometimes)

Here’s a rare find: the inglenook. It’s a little alcove built around the fireplace. With built-in benches facing the fire. Like a room within a room. I only know one house that has one—my grandma’s friend’s bungalow. When I was a kid, we’d sit there with hot cocoa on snow days. It felt like our own secret spot.

Not every bungalow has one. But the ones that do? They’re special. It’s the Craftsman ideal in one small space: cozy, family-focused, a sanctuary. It reminds you of old cottages, where the fireplace was the center of everything. If you ever find a bungalow with an original inglenook? Hold onto it. It’s magic.

18. Breakfast Nooks

Formal dining rooms are nice. But let’s be real—most meals are casual. That’s where the breakfast nook comes in. Tucked right off the kitchen. Small but bright. With built-in benches and a tiny table. My cousin has one. They eat pancakes there every Saturday. The kids draw on the table with crayons (don’t tell their mom). It’s where they drink coffee before work.

It’s a smart trick: no need for a big dining set when you have this. The nook is usually surrounded by windows. So it’s sunny—perfect for starting the day. And the benches? They have storage underneath. Great for hiding napkins, placemats, or the kids’ toys. Works well and feels cheerful. What more could you want?

19. Sloping Foundations (Sometimes)

Remember those tapered columns? Sometimes the foundation does the same thing. A “battered” foundation is wider at the ground, narrower as it goes up. Like it’s spreading out to hug the earth. You usually see it with river rock or concrete foundations.

My dad pointed this out to me once, when we walked past a bungalow. “See that?” he said. “It makes the house look rooted. Like it’s not going anywhere.” He was right. It’s a small detail. But it changes how the house feels. Not like it’s sitting on top of the ground. But part of it. Organic. Natural.

20. Simple Hardware

Hardware might seem small. But it matters. Victorian houses had shiny brass doorknobs with fancy engravings. Pretty, but they tarnish fast. Craftsman hardware? Simple. Hammered black iron. Oil-rubbed bronze. Dull nickel. No frills. Just function.

My aunt’s cabinets have these black iron pulls. They’re not perfect—you can see little marks from where the blacksmith made them. But they work. You grab them, open the cabinet, no fuss. It’s a rejection of mass-produced, over-the-top stuff. Just something well-made that does its job. And honestly? It looks better than any shiny new hardware I’ve seen.

21. Colonnades as Room Dividers

Want open space but still want to separate rooms? Try a colonnade. It’s a low wall. Usually with short, square columns on top that reach the ceiling. Most often used to split the living room and dining room.

I was in a bungalow last year that had one. The wall was just tall enough to set books on. The columns were thin enough that light flowed through. You could be in the dining room and still talk to someone on the couch. No closed doors. No awkward silences. It’s genius: not a wall, not nothing. Just the right balance.

22. Fits With the Landscape

These houses don’t just sit on a lot—they work with it. Porches lead to patios. Patios lead to pergolas covered in vines. The landscaping uses native plants. No fancy roses that die in the winter. Just stuff that grows naturally.

The bungalow down the street has a porch that steps right into a small garden. They hung string lights in the pergola. In summer, they have dinners outside. The house doesn’t block the yard—it’s part of it. You look at it, and you think, “That’s how a house should be.” No fighting the land. Working with it.

23. Kit Homes

Here’s a fun fact I didn’t know until I looked into these houses: most of them were kit homes! Companies like Sears sold them through catalogs. You’d order one. They’d ship all the parts in a railroad boxcar: pre-cut wood, nails, paint, even the doorknobs.

My great-grandpa built one in 1927. He wasn’t a carpenter—just a farmer. But he and his brother put it together in a few months. It’s still standing. My cousin lives there now. That’s the beauty of it: it made nice, well-designed houses accessible to regular families. Not just rich folks. No fancy skills needed—just a little time and help.

24. Simple, Honest Construction

If I had to sum up these houses in one word, it’d be “honest.” They don’t hide their flaws. They don’t cover up their structure. The rafters are exposed. The wood grain shows. The hardware is simple. It’s like the house is saying, “This is what I am. Take it or leave it.”

Back in the 20s, the world was getting more industrial—mass-produced stuff everywhere. These houses pushed back. They celebrated hand-craftsmanship (or at least the look of it). Simple forms. Natural materials. No extra stuff. My mom always says, “If something’s well-made, you don’t need to dress it up.” That’s exactly these bungalows.

25. Japanese Architecture Influence

Here’s a detail you might miss: these houses have a lot in common with Japanese design. American architects at the turn of the century loved Japanese houses—how simple they are, how they blend with nature, how they use wood so well.

You can see it in the low roofs, the wide eaves, the exposed wood. My friend who studies architecture pointed out that the way light plays through the windows? Total Japanese influence. It gives the houses this calm, Zen vibe—like a peaceful garden, but a home. It’s a small touch. But it’s why these houses feel so relaxing to be in.

A Legacy That Lasts

So there you have it—25 reasons these houses still make us stop and stare. They’re not perfect. Some have creaky floors. Some need new roofs. Some have tiny bathrooms (let’s be real—1920s plumbing was a different time). But that’s part of their charm. They’re lived-in. They’re real.

These bungalows aren’t just houses. They’re where kids learned to ride bikes in the driveway. Where families had Thanksgiving dinners by the fireplace. Where people sat on the porch after a hard day, just watching the world go by. They’re a reminder that good design doesn’t need to be flashy. It just needs to be honest. Timeless. Like home.

What about you? Ever walked past a 1920s Craftsman bungalow and thought, “I could live there”? Or do you own one already? What’s your favorite part—the porch? The fireplace? The built-ins? I’d love to hear your story.

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