Southfield cancer survivor's hand-crafted birdhouses are attracting out-of-state buyers

Tom Esshaki was sick and discouraged and ready to sell his tools, which is sort of like a pianist taking offers for his keys. Then his wife had a dream.

Or maybe it was more of a vision, since she is certain it arrived from on high.

"I came to him as he was laying there," Denise Esshaki said of her husband, a cancer patient initially written off by his own doctor, "and I told him, 'God gave me a dream. You're going to be building in the future.'"

Now there's a rolling rack of cedar birdhouses across the base of a driveway a quarter-mile west of Telegraph Road in Southfield, and OK, that's not what she thought she meant. But the Lord works in mysterious ways and Tom works in artful ones, and the upshot is four shelves of hand-crafted bird domiciles, turning heads and inspiring the occasional U-turn on Nine Mile Road.

The Esshakis are each 70 years old and there are lifetimes of other elements to their story, including Saddam Hussein and Elvis Presley. The effects of Tom's squamous cell carcinoma linger; his voice is just north of a whisper, a kerchief around his neck hides his tracheostomy tube, and a feeding tube delivers his food, liquids and medications.

A priority for both of them, though — along with their faith, and each other — is the birdhouses, the smallest starting around $40 and the detailed, three- or four-holed avian condos fetching as much as $250.

Last spring, Denise said, "He started building birdhouses. He built, I would say, 25 in a month. He wasn't stopping."

Not unreasonably, Denise asked him what the heck he was doing.

"It was the Lord," he said. "God inspired me to make these."

Then people started buying them.

Tremors and a shaky diagnosis

Denise grew up in Wyandotte, the oldest of 10 children. Tom was born the ninth of 10 in Lebanon to an Iraqi Chaldean dad and Lebanese mom.

It was Hussein's emergence as an Iraqi political force in 1969 that pushed the family to leave the region, Tom said, and he adjusted quickly enough to his new country that he spent some time as a cape-wearing Elvis impersonator.

He and Denise met when she was a reservations clerk with Northwest Airlines and a few co-workers talked her into joining them at Tremors, the hottest nightclub in all of Livonia from 1988 to 2003.

She remembers the date, Jan. 10, 1990. He remembers that "I knew she wasn't from around there. She didn't belong in a bar."

They danced, they swooned, they married, they opened a shop called The Play Station, selling video games and refurbished consoles at the County Line Trade Center flea market in Warren.

In October 2018, they noticed an odd patch on the left side of his neck, and wait, was it growing?

A doctor told them Tom had three months to live.

"You're mistaken," she shot back, "because you don't know who I know."

Not only abandoning bedside manner but mixing metaphors, the doctor said he'd bet donuts to a farm that he was correct.

He was not.

Tools and tribulations

The chemotherapy and radiation were punishing and the recovery was long.

That's the genteel analysis. What Denise said is, "They fried him up pretty good."

Eventually, he bounced at least part of the way back. At 5-foot-6, he only weighs 115 pounds, but he can heft the tools Denise told him to keep.

He had already built their back deck, looking out over an ample yard on a plot of almost 2 acres that sees deer, the occasional fox, endless small birds and one busy wild turkey with a dozen chicks.

Post-cancer, he erected fences, a greenhouse, and a workshop stocked with a DeWalt compressor, a band saw, a circle saw, an industrial strength sander and at least four drills.

Out of the workshop came the birdhouses, along with the rack he uses to wheel them to Nine Mile. "Homeless Birdhouses," the sign above them says, a reference to the condition of the birds and not the woodworker.

None of the homes are identical, Tom said, and most have whatever flourishes occur to him as he's cutting and hammering. They might feature arches over the entry hole or decks beneath them. Some have balconies, or stacks of tiny logs alongside like a ski chalet. A few are painted, and fewer than that are silo-shaped rather than squared off.

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The display blocks the Esshakis' driveway, so the lawn next to it has been rubbed bare by tires. The unlikely birdhouse bazaar is open most days until the weather turns cold; if no one is minding the store, just pick up a business card and dial Denise's number.

Sales have hit triple figures, Denise said, a blessing for a couple whose other income is Social Security. One woman just bought six as gifts. A surprising number of buyers have been from out of state: "They wanted a birdhouse," she said, "and lo and behold."

Denise believes they were steered by God. Those less devout might credit traffic engineers or MapQuest.

Tom sides with Denise, but from inside the woodshop, he's thinking more about the next house.

He can't eat anymore and he can't even drink water, but his hands can create labors of love — blessings for the flock, and a bit of salvation for the carpenter.

While Neal Rubin's parents owned canaries named for opera singers, his only involvement with the avian world is believing the Kirtland's warbler should be the Michigan state bird. Reach him at NARubin@freepress.com, or via Twitter at @nealrubin_fp.

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This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Tom Esshaki's hand-crafted birdhouses in Southfield turn heads