Where were you when the DWEE was born?

Everyone remembers where they were when history happened. Some events stop the world in its tracks—when a president was shot, when a shuttle exploded, when towers fell. These are the moments people recall in hushed tones over coffee, voices trailing off as they gaze into the middle distance.

The creation of the Department of Water, Energy and Environment was one of those moments.

Some say they were at their desk, innocently skimming the day’s press releases. Others were fixing a sandwich. One claims he was alphabetizing a filing cabinet when the news hit, and dropped a whole drawer somewhere between “Public Lands” and “Reclamation.” Wherever they were, they remember. You don’t forget the day two agencies became one.

The announcement came with all the pageantry befitting such an occasion: a ceremonial signing, appointed officials with advanced degrees in geology and water planning, and earnest declarations about aquifers and the future. For anyone who’s ever thrilled at a merged org chart or teared up over interdepartmental synergy, it was a lot to take in.

But it wasn’t the first time people felt this way.

Years earlier, there was the emotional consolidation of the Department of Roads and the Department of Aeronautics—two proud bureaucracies, long circling one another like twin satellites of asphalt and airspace, finally drawn into mutual orbit under the Department of Transportation banner. People still talk about that one. Some even claim they “knew it was coming,” though the truest believers remember being blindsided—in the best possible way.

Then there was the day the Historical Society changed its name to “History [Insert State Here].” That was more controversial. Some welcomed the rebrand. Others mourned the loss of a definite article. Still others never noticed. But for a small subset of statehouse watchers and cultural preservationists, it was an emotional rollercoaster. Now, of course, it’s being changed back. Closure, of a kind.

Someday, when the grandchildren climb into your lap and ask wide-eyed, “Where were you when DWEE was born?”—you’ll pause, let the silence hang, and answer softly, “I was in the breakroom. The coffee was burnt. The copier had jammed. And then... the email came.”

They’ll ask if you celebrated. You’ll say of course. You walked outside, looked up at the sky, and whispered, “Permitting will never be the same.” Maybe you marked the occasion with an act of electrolysis—just to honor both water and energy. Maybe you planted a native grass or filed a report in triplicate, just for the symbolism. Traditions vary.

Some say the true observance happens quietly, every July 1, at the start of the fiscal biennium. A candle lit. A draft rule proposed. A spreadsheet closed, unsaved.

So yes, remember. Because these are the moments that shape us—not just as citizens, but as deeply sentimental lovers of well-intentioned government reorganization...and when the next merger comes—and it will come—you’ll be ready. Clipboard in hand. Heart on your sleeve.